Modern Romanticism

Carry you
On a rowboat made of shields.
The wood is to your texture of skin,
A velvet,
A softness,
Of many nights spent deep under
Your caress.

Blood runs as our water,
Streaming from poisoned wrists.
I am in love with a crippled heart,
A disused soul
That does not move
In alignment with the wind.

I am, in your eyes
The strongest sort of sadness.
You reap what we cannot take
On this long voyage
To the petals,
To the silver lakes.

I carry you,
I row you
To the places that Neptune forgot,
Though Mars had remembered.

Our wars
Are our places on Earth.
Our kisses
Are as deep as Heaven is high.