What, when upon a mile,
I can shoulder grief in the harried storm?
Pulling petals
As butterfly wings,
Washing down the ocean’s suds
With my own blood?
My twin and I, apart,
As Heaven seems so dark,
Holy Hell with I,
Feeble, yet alive
With symptoms of sadness in the hair,
Without joy in each of everywhere.
Her eyes, the deepest glimpse
Of everything else I have missed.
Denial and me comes kneeling
To the earth, beyond,
To the altar of sealing.
Something stagnant in the bliss,
Something hushed
In the kiss,
While skies open up,
Same with the mouths
Longing to speak the words
Buried in tempests,
As funerals run onwards past that mile
Of hurried nights, in the love-struck while.
Modern Romanticism 
I appreciated the depth of emotion in this poem. Nicely expressed!
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