Hold up travesty,
Wielding the stones around your neck,
Believing in the grief
For far too long.
Weeping, as would the pangs
In the desertion of you,
Bleeding, as could the rocks
In their release of the tide.
Molecules do float
Upon your heat
To the senseless sensation
In your whispers.
Defeated on fallen knees
To the cliff that would be your sunrise
Were the life bequeathed to tragedy
Could still its blood,
For a moment more.
We can run your hair
Through the curls,
With tresses that wait
For a second to be straight
On the path to one moment
More to the answer,
Without the division,
The parting
Between reality
And its deceit.
To your defeat,
Your eyes can scrawl the same image
For shapes that cease
A departure from the same tempered,
Sickened solace.
Torn from above,
Where water collects in the hourglass
Depositing time in used droplets
To your open mouth
That would speak
The same riddle from a heart.
Modern Romanticism 