Modern Romanticism

Would you meet me
To hear me speak
Of all truth that will make me weak?
Upon my knees, I plead
For the faces that stream out to the reeds
That bend to the wind,
As eyes watch the sun drop from the sky's forehead
More afflicted with fever, of blue
Than the yellow of Zenith.

Greet me,
Seat me
In the ivory chairs
Within
Your cruelest lairs.

You have watched my heart
Quit its beating.
You have scolded the mind
That has attempted to run a direction
Not as dead as our love's duration.

I want to watch the sky fall,
As truth is to God's lips.
Could He kiss you
As well as I could
When I taste the feverish blue
Of you, in the new?

Your dreams are as the man
Who did not land,
While our love does not lie,
As we cannot paint the walls with our tears
From our heart,
Nor our minds, of bloody fears.