Modern Romanticism

Has your fashion
Run out of place?
Your eyes just hang there
Like the coats within your wardrobe.
Your body is a glimpse of your decrepit self,
By your glance
Into a fractured mirror.

I can't give love
To a one
Loathsome, in the flesh,
By her eyes
Deathly, upon her demise.

Scorn your age,
Like the sun never wanted you,
For it never would see you.

You are as the no one loved,
Mocked by desires,
To be nothing more, to everything less.

Build your field,
Never your mountains.

Give your shield,
To hang your thorns.

The moon grows colder,
While you stand there,
Giving your irises something to imagine
Could never be eternal.