Modern Romanticism

Call us up
In poorest sentiment,
For we are mere innocents
With our chandeliers high above
Our burrowed brow.

We glow as it,
Startled in newness,
Lifelike in our short temptations,
For infanthood is a pleasantness
To our weakness.

You are God,
With His face a set of thorns,
To His son.
Two eyes, drops of beryl,
With a mouth a stripe of paint.

She is the world,
Crawling on its shoulders.
She stains the world,
Seeking to dismantle
A man, with his fertile dagger.

Into flesh,
Past the mesh,
Clawing at spite,
Giving into height
Of a womb with scarlet entrenched.

Her love,
Like a mother without cheeks
To kiss.
Her mouth, sown shut with wire,
For she does not ever smile.

A pain
To be called up
From the shores of past tapestries
Showing the lakes and riverbanks
With the fires upon lustful oils.