Modern Romanticism

Beneath the wilted roses,

I seem a fragrance too many.

Too often left upon my bones

To drink of something else sweet.

Your absence has buried my heart,

Left me full of the dark.

You loosened me, then dropped me

Like the infant upon his neck.

I felt the summer come too close,

For winter to take its place.

These petals have holes,

Like what decorates my heart,

Like what decorates my home

Left in the driving rain

Of tears that mourn a great emptiness,

Enlivened only by the memory of you.