Modern Romanticism

Truth is the iris,
Burning brightly from love's crown,
Desiring to fall the kingdoms down
Upon feet, stepped in the virgin snow,
Deep in the mire,
With hearts lit by fire.

You have veins,
You have vanity
Kissed by a mouth, ripe as fruit,
Kissed by another set
Of amorous lips.

Why fall,
To catch it all?
You enter the world
Desiring the crawl
Of men, in your call.

You bleed
Color, for the world to see.
You raise banners, among the crowd
Blinding others, by the sun
Of your seditious blaze.
Why won't you fall in your own puddles?

You are the kind monarch,
With the crown upon your temple, still
Aligned with the bonds of inevitable scorn
That points to your empty forehead,
Possessing still no third eye
To see yourself, when you die.