Modern Romanticism

It is only
That tears can drown a dream
Straight into the firelight
Beholding its own bright gleam.
Drops, so far from the whiteness
Of springtime innocence.

As an infant, I wept,
Though not for this.
I was weeping for pains I did not understand.
Do I still?

I am tears.
I am in the empty well
Of winterly fears.

White snow
Is at the absolute low
Of where the bucket drowns itself.

Plundering blackness
Up from a bottom
Where solidified teardrops remain.
I have stained hands,
As I live upon these sorrowed lands.

Sand covers,
As sand shrouds
My face,
The bottom of that well.

I place her eyes
Outside the circle, in the surrounding sides of me.

I feel her sighs
Coming as fog,
As the gusts,
As the brush of something more
Than me.