Modern Romanticism

How would I like
To soak myself in the strands of your rain?
Bleak and brown locks that hang like hands
Loosened off the edges of broken clocks.

Your grave, a swindler's den
That kisses me, in breezes to the night,
The gusts to my palms,
The seeds of fairest dandelions
Lost on their voyage
Like your remembered scent
Carried through to the end of Spring.

I bleed
To soak pages
Without something to consider
Further
From you,
When time stops on its pale design
In the space where stars only look to find.

You broke the key,
Painted senseless moments
Without truth,
Without slightest comprehension.

I catch your eyes wide open
Without dimension,
For you have stayed only to wield fire
To burn my hardened skin.

I am where blood boils
Where the life toils,
Where the dreams die,
As the wishes subside.