Modern Romanticism

Hold yourself
Close to your beloved thorns,
Bleeding your arms to be dried.
You caress your wounded heart
Like a pup
That has lost its own mother.
I believe truth
Can be as changeable
As the weather,
As your expressions,
As your form when it ages,
As your fingers when they wilt
Like the petals
That leave, like all of life
Clung upon the breast, for too long.

Are your secrets
In such a woman's heart
Ever known, by the world and its curious inhabitants?

Their eyes are upon you,
Though you retreat to the shadows
To erase yourself in keen modesty.

Who knows you
Besides those known by you?

Your heart feeds fire
Its forging of something new,
Spawned from you,
In the shaping of blue from ocean,
Blue from horizon.

Why do your tears leave lakes, then,
If not to cover yourself in the clay
Found at its rocky bottom?

Does sand not ease you?
Does the desert not please you?