Modern Romanticism

My pain
Is naught.
Your pain
Is bought
From the galleries where color is adorned
At the Spaniard Puetra del Sol,
Run as red on ivory
As a blushing girl, roaming through destiny.

You field the flowers,
As their scents tempt you.
Kiss their great numbers,
That I cannot haunt you.

I want to love, while the buildings wilt
After the day they were built.
Though, to my excuse, my shame
It is all to cloud my pain.

Loosen your locks
To follow your own way home.
My heart, alike stone
Stained with the moss, bled from loss
In its own forest of travesty
Where breaths are mere weeping sighs.

Just a droplet, squeezed from a crevice
In this woven ruby orb
Is enough to last for my remembrance,
As destinies are built, while love wilts.