Modern Romanticism

Without your ink on my page,
I am merely the blandness,
The white-out for the memories
That once held me in the stillness
For captivation.

For without your sheer presence,
My mind is but the torment
To my unending youth.
All I caress, is the pain that pours down
On the leaves, that gather at my feet.

Of the waters,
Of their stillness,
There had been, something dear,
When all there's now, is all to fear.
Let come the rolling currents, for my tears are raining.

My sight is draining
You, from my mind,
In what I see, is the endless pleas
To a god, who does not answer back
For the happiness, that I lack.

Great, wilted roses,
Watching Moses,
Did he ever witness the heart,
That, too, did part?