How upon a river, when that stream comes as tears, you’d ever be swept aside? My hands are disfigured, so unlike yours that bare themselves to the sunlit moon. Mine do tremble, beneath my face that has been smeared. Smeared by ash, while your hands are not with scars, though with the purity I’ve kept.
Can I love until the bleeding stops? For no one else, and for everything more, have I always loved you. My pain is an empire, of its own. My love is a woe, of its own. Though, to your safety, have I’ve continually kept myself beaten down.
Like one hollow demon, devoid of his healing, there is nothing to raise me. I accept that, when the stars do not look like fruit to my eyes. For your delicate consumption, you can pick one to hold, when I lift your heavenly form.
For not my pain to heal, though for yours to be sealed, can I always remain this way. Just a droplet from a raging pour of tears, who never mattered to himself. It is just, for this is the way. This is the way the stars align. Your face, the skies, among the hanging boughs of the birches, as each thing burns a vision for my stare. We are not clothed by our remorse to the past, though by our hopes for the future.
Sing to me, dear one, that you know my pain never mattered. Live for me, when you stand above, knowing that my tears will be lost. I have always lived at your side, growing love with thorns that scrape my flesh. Let us live with the sickness of words, among the proof of action. My pain, is my demonic self. For my anger, I do become something else. Though, for no one else more, can I become something born into the arms of a woman. As you, the love I have kept upon the curves of the Earth, seeing each thing that passes among everything that arrives.
Will you ever love with contempt, to me? I have been terrible, upon a time, though only to never see the demonic appearance, of me. I reject healing, for yours.
Modern Romanticism 