Modern Romanticism

How could all
Discover where I call?
I am merely two inches buried in my grave,
In my Hell,
In my storm.
There is abounding scenery
Displaced from this world,
Of bones,
Crosses,
Fields lined with dead mice.

She left a teardrop to my empty hand,
Drawing herself away
From my distant mind.

Now when emptiness is to me,
To my heart,
There is the world, worn apart.

She is the remnants of me,
Frozen on the tantrums I expel
From my open mouth.
Love is a single cent too many,
Too much,
Too little.

The light she holds onto
Is betterment for a bright summer,
Away from the paradise, I called winter.

For above her keen eyes
Is a star blossomed in the skies.
I wish to bow,
Though I cannot allow
Myself, to be gone from darkness.