Dear one,
Times have not
Been this woeful,
Through a disguise.
For the face you see
Weeping with the tears that sing
Of an aching heart,
Breaks only me.
There are designs
Far too fortunate, to be corrupt.
There are consigns
Far too holy to be abrupt.
Here, love can linger
On the last echo to a dying soul,
While a final hour comes crawling
Back to rhythmic heartbeats.
The great storms,
These extensive puddles
Of tears that exit
These eyes that hold much more
Than ever a heart could give.
I wash myself
In my own blood,
Rusting flesh with the iron,
Opening wounds with the eyelids
That close only to your sight.
Modern Romanticism 