Modern Romanticism

It is that
My eyes have only ever cried
For you
Under the haze of a dying sun's
Weathering flame.

The sadness
Will show me gladness,
Will lead me straight
Into your fragile hold
That I can match myself.

We are two broken figures
Finding balance
With our feet upon the snow.

We are cripples learning to walk,
Guiding ourselves by our blind eyes,
Leading off the cliffs.

To where
Should we shove fire?
Love is made of two feet
Stood upon a hardened base,
Yet, to coldness,
To oldness,
Our lives can die,
With the other wondering why.

Our arms
Are made of glass,
Streaming blood, when broken,
When cutting the skin,
When they embrace
To offer that red warmth,
That comfort
Needed.