Modern Romanticism

Let me lean towards the spires,
The cathedrals and their masses seem to let me go.
I field the work full of snow,
Full of seeds, that rain to melt.
I kneel in the dirt, to hope that I am chosen.
Life has left me broken, upon her scars.

Will God let me rain
The tears, to create the stain
Upon my frigid fingers
Where pain truly lingers?

She sold her eyes for temptation,
To cure my resignation
From herself, in the snow,
In every low.

This Hell is my spell,
My desire becoming Heaven's fire.
Blooming between me
Is the great sarcophagus of a greater disaster.

I want to lick every bone
That twitches in every toe
That steps on every grave,
For each are my own.

I have laid to rest every memory
That has stained me.

I have bled my own palms so gravely,
That beauty has turned her head to name me.
To name me a scorned disarrangement
Who has lifted curse to blessing.