Arms for your
Tired, whimpering complexion,
And burned flesh.
Await, ourselves
For Heaven’s open lash
Upon skeletal scenery.
Weeping with the shooting stars
A heart to cross a bleak landscape,
With none for the sun, to rise.
You wait,
With head in this frozen lap
And my bleeding palms.
You weep
With decoration of starlight,
Symptoms of the sickness
For our wild selves
To at last, exhaust
All particles of this winter bliss
To summer’s heated kiss.
We wait
With faces silenced for the morn,
Aghast in the stream
To lifted daylight,
That goes gray.
Modern Romanticism 