He believed more in betrayal, than that of love. Watched, as the stars kissed his cheeks. Waited, as the haze melted him into a portrayal of surrender. Laughed, as the clouds mocked him among their height.
He kept something. A locket. Of a face with two roses for cheeks, blush for the sake of the lips, and two eyes that always made him weep. What a love that lays frozen before the petals. Skipping heartbeats and sadness that stirs in the trenches of his own veins. Blood flows, though to him, remains idle. Just a face that no longer moves. Two eyes, that never truly look back.
Standing before a lake, his heart is now just one more stone at the bottom of it. He wishes to know the world, for its end. Bending a knee, and his hard entrance to the earth will cover him. A minor leak from his eyes, to then regret.
Pangs of dread reveal him to motion, of nothing near. Bright crystal upon the lake that evokes the frozen tension, keeping him drowned. Stillness and itself, of a man with his locket, wastes seconds on the beach where pebbles are scattered at his feet. Precious moments, that could have been given to sheer recollection, rows a boat across this lake of his repeated sighs. Of sighs that whisper, of those that speak themselves in their repetition to shift with the faint hint of fog upon the lake’s surface. He is endless, both in thoughts, among his grief.
Where is the world to embrace him?
Where is the shouting command, from a Heaven that looks down? Where are the waiting arms, to welcome him back to warmth?
Find all else, and then he shall shatter.
Walking without sunlight, battered by the moonlight in his heart, and watered by the endless raindrops that shower from nowhere, he finds himself trapped in the debris. Wasted, with no mouth to truly speak, as there are no eyes to ever read.
Modern Romanticism 