Modern Romanticism

We were nothing more
To be everything less
Than a mountain
To shadow the sea.
Love is our story,
Our complexity,
Our safety,
Though we bleed so much,
With tears that stream
Down to our frozen chins.

That mountain,
Our love,
Lowest
In its deepening cratered
Shallows
Where anger raises up,
For that mountain
Is a volcano.
Am I sympathetic,
Or truly the man who is the beast?

It dwells,
It expels
The fog from its open mouth,
The steam from its opened eyes,
The blood from its cut veins.

The world starts
With oceans apart,
Siphoned out for devastation.
The world is bright red
In the mouth of the beast.

Honey is now red,
Licked free from every
Morsel of flesh.