What man
Has dared to bend his time,
Freely, for the things he does wrong
From all else, he could belong?
The witness
Brought forth, with no happiness,
No bandages to bring
Repair to the fading trench
Of veins
In this swollen heart.
The love, tried to the guilt
Of brokenness
In the commandment of the crippled,
Among all those
Born to weep, die to wilt.
Faces with wind-caught tears
Against the cheeks,
Frozen through, to yesteryear.
The stayed image
Of tension, in the mind of men
Who dared to love the woman
Not worth ten.
Modern Romanticism 