Holy for the trail
I gave into sickness and wail,
Bled for love, beyond
The selfish self is won,
While she drew a curtain
About all modesty, stunned,
Weeping with crystal glaciers
Born over silver eyes.
She knew the dark could not keep
The places where she'd fled,
As torn clothing brought me closer,
Closer for what had left her.
As tears were bleakest ink
In the storm of a raven's censure.
I sought, with eyes appealed,
Upon her heart, could be revealed.
As love dried around her cries,
While petals fall to ocean tides.
A love with everything torn,
Books wide open in the dust.
A bleeding face, with anything worn
To the heart prettied by rust.
Time's ancient place among flesh
Holds her true, to Springtime's death.
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Modern Romanticism 