Modern Romanticism

How is it the new books describe
What the old books already wrote?
You were the mattering
For a perfect world.

My eyes see glimmers.
Perhaps it is the stars that I witness,
Perhaps the beautiful moon over a lake,
Though it is only my tears.

My understanding
Of what is so real as death,
Is not my understanding of what is unreal
As my life.

You were the sunrise in the morning,
Until you became the darkness that mingles
In the evening's colors.
You became what I lost of myself
In the twilight,
In the spring.

Why do we reach for better tomorrows?
What is there left, besides simple sorrow?
I am the pacifist, with an emptiness,
For I fight only during the night,
Warding sleep in my early coffin.
Running currents from my eyes,
Remaining dried there
Upon the surface, so bare.