Here, as gravity reaches you,
Though never pulls you down
To remain in these arms,
Against the night.
You will continue to sing
With a face disclosed of all signs.
Of weariness to your form,
For pain that never belongs
Among the candleflame at the ends
Of wax fingers.
Dropping the scenery
Stayed too long.
With nowhere to belong,
Do you still find it hard
To tighten the rope
About your neck?
You were taken in the night,
Fashioned to be death’s nakedness
To a shell, among all your
Apparent brokenness.
Another wasted puddle
For all tears that fell from dismal,
Despondent, and already
Emptied clouds.
Modern Romanticism 