Modern Romanticism

Let the sea swallow up
My bleeding self.
Yet, when the sirens do come to elapse
My painful sickness,
I will sit here
To count of the cuts
Lining my wrists, beneath the gleam
Of burning moonlight.

Try as we might
To lick clean the wounds,
As vanity proves its maneuver.

Your lips,
A searing to my pleading.
I want to kiss, what I shall not regret.

Your eyes
Try to dry themselves
In the lakes,
Chosen of your rotten fingers.
I kiss your heart.
Your mind, I prod.

I face your glance
In the tides of this crawling ocean.
I am washed by the ebony,
To be let free by the ivory.

There is smoothness to each kiss
You drown
In a heart that could not keep you.