Modern Romanticism

Count your eyes
Far from the deep blue
Of this hazy evening.
You have fault upon your own stars
When you send the messages
Through the wind.
I can breathe what could be slept with,
To be drunk off your stare.

The little maid
You once were,
With eyes that darted towards horizons
Where flame cast upwards,
Danced like your legs
Upon the somber frost
Of windows, opened.
You now lay there, for my hand's reach.

I paw flesh
That soothes all I have slept
With the sheets caked in blood.
All that drains from my eyes
Is the color of the sun.

Little mourning woman
With your sigh,
With your smile,
Trembling like the leaf left frozen
On the lane parted from the rest.

Too many men have left you,
Like the lakes below your chin,
Where your hands have sifted within
To discover memories of such deepest blue.