Modern Romanticism

She wrote of bliss
On a long line of my reprieve,
While I sought to leave
All the while, nestled
Within her arms, in the storms
Of her eyes.

I cast symmetry
Out of me.
The fragments, the pieces
Are better suited to my reflection
And my resurrection
Has more of an edge, than smoothness.

Pieces,
Brokenness,
As depression hungers,
Wilting my form like the fanned petals,
Raising flames to curl against my tired eyes,
In the failing of the next sunrise.

She smeared the ruins of a kiss
Over my beading forehead,
Showered by the overhead storm
Before one blissful sunset.