Modern Romanticism

She wilted

For me to gather her up

In the fields where lay her fallen dewdrops,

Like her wings to shed a million feathers.

She was crushed

With the wind against her mountains,

Her eyes against the storm.

I drew beauty's faith close,

As it gave me a chance

To raise love, anew.

Her love

Born from a thousand poet's words,

Aflame, and leaking

To then be drinking

Its touch on the pyre.

Her face

Dreams of being without pain.

Her sadness

Lasts only to fade.

I wade in her mind, tonight,

In the drunkenness

Of a seeming million more

To starve for.