Head is down
To transparency
Among what leaves shadows
At shifting feet,
To the end that mattered little
Within the melancholic song,
By what lost its lines
Deep in the color of an unsung heart.
Fall will be to the ruin
A twin among the ashes,
Scattered in sudden decadence
For each black dress
With each swaying hip,
To all curves to kiss
That melt at the slightest faze
To spark up a glimmer in their eyes.
A dance for the darkest butterfly
Left to lose its wings
For the painful flame
Of love’s short hour,
On the setting scene.
Walking with the moon, afloat,
A sun undressed of white
Down to the blackest symptom
Of everything else a-fright.
A shell to the radiance,
A losing vestige,
One moment to kiss the curve,
The next to be blind in the dust.
Modern Romanticism 