Modern Romanticism

The state,
The waiting game
Of your eyes upon the lane,
Where our roads will cross,
Where our fields shall know loss.
As I see thee,
I want to say
That nothing in the world matters.

Your beauty
Is an image of my defeat.
My arms are long
As they hang.
My tears wet roses
That dry against their thorns.

My grace
Is a nothing.
Your face
Has called me to everything.
I, upon my knees,
Have given into pleas.

Where does love say to go,
When it no longer snows?
When I no longer hang heavy
With the weight of my state,
I can bleed
With a heart, that has no residence
In me,
For us.