Modern Romanticism

She holds curtains
Before her trailing eyes,
Then asks the world,
"Where were all those loathsome goodbyes
That never came, before the end?"

Trails come as journeys
To tears, never-ending.
For her, life threw turns to her,
Sobbing beneath the blackest veil
Thrown over trembling shoulders.

Her neck is a bath
For the bucket, the rope
To be sunken.
Her chair, her rest,
Not for posture, though to stand.

Loosened tears,
Come trailing
From fiery fears.
We wield the cure for her
Held between our teeth.

Oh, love,
Can you come down
To see her, before she sets her wings
To soar?
Can you come, before she is cut to the floor?