Modern Romanticism

Cold
Washes the running warmth
From your heart.
You want an end
To each bending turn
Of a vein for you to follow.
You will only bleed more
From eyes that are cast
In a direction of nowhere.

Life has left you
Open, like a child.
Hands are splayed out
To catch the droplets
To your playful self.

You are the current
In your own storm.
The woman with dreams attached
To fountains that never stop spewing
The infinite tears.

Life has echoes,
While love has the return
Of warm hands against a dead heart.

Those words you call
Bound off the walls
Of the fortress you've raised.

Drop your defenses
That I might loosen myself
Through the cracks
To your defeat.