Modern Romanticism

While worlds remain
Apart,
Beneath,
Over,
We are the fog that does not lift
From the lakes that make
Our eyes.

Your solace,
Your peace
Is soon to come,
By the hounds that race
Across valleys,
Orchard,
Lanes.

I sense you in the dark,
Your heart is crushed
By the sweetest abandonment.
For in all my pain,
I have only ever tasted blood
When we loved.
I have only ever tasted my own filth.

Tears run like extending miles
Over the curves of your cheeks,
Making the world's defeat
Appear like the infant's wailings.

You are someone stilled
In the moonbeams.
Why won't you bathe
In what you have made?