You tell,
You spell the cause of your woe,
And I come crawling
To ease,
To please you, in pain’s dire flow.
The simplicity
To bereave
When I wear a heart
Stitched on my sleeve.
Calm this,
And do not fuel this.
These urges shall come undone
To bleed you,
To grieve you
On the wires of your heart
Hung from the highest cliff,
Spilling down
Its descent from the crown.
Scorn the beast,
Though fill the emptiness.
I have only
Ever wanted to hold
Your shattered aspect
In broken arms.
Save what leaves,
Of pain that keeps its weariness.
Only to always
Keep such sensation hidden
Inside the skeletal frame,
Within the bare wretchedness.
They have,
Always have
Sought to seal me,
Not to heal me.
To your heart,
With eyes to its worth,
I keep what cannot sleep,
Drowned in its tears.
Modern Romanticism 