Wait for the wild times To say upon the current times That they were not meant in their place To see the thousand weeping faces. The dangerous times Place themselves on the seat of shame. The gentler times Are seated on the right place of life. We are two foes Who fight, in the throes, in the grace Of winter's embrace. I curse my bleeding Heart, in its wind. Freest, only when in pain. Tell me stories, near to the flame that spurts the pain In highest embers, lowest cinders. We are wilted and chaotic, as parted clouds Waiting for the new storm To take our place. Your love, your miles, Your life, your trials, I seem to only be, the pain for thee. The music of sinister Entertainment and pleas. Our fingers, damaged Upon the touch of our marred and scarred faces, Drift from our burned palms. Can we kiss, beneath the blue In chasteness, without wastefulness?
Modern Romanticism 
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