Modern Romanticism

Tell me stories,
Sing me songs
Of quiet verse by firelight.
You'll tell of your pain to the searing flame
That grows not merely in the hearth,
Though in your heart.

You will speak,
Will you not?

Of all avenues where your eyes track
The simplest reprieve you've always lacked.

To something you want to share
Upon your chest, to the winter, so bare.

You burn brightness to the visitor's surrender
In your form, so frigid, that it melts.

You have been cold,
As you have been sold.
You have been waiting
For something for nothing.
I did love,
Though did I give you everything?