Modern Romanticism

You shelter
Yourself, beneath your own rain.
Your eyes have their own clouds,
Burning waters to fall upon your face
Marred from lucid terror.

Beauty
Has rained like fallen flesh,
Like burning limbs
Over your ashen, skeletal form.

I am the man
Who can hold your hand
For a thousand more years
Upon this land.

Like waters,
You walk with a soft pace,
The softest gait
To your flesh, in the marble,
In the snow.

Your chest
Is a place to where I shall nest
My incomplete self.