A doomed area setting west,
While teardrops rise within the east.
You are the moon, down upon my breast,
Fading songs into the silent feast
With winter’s tears to linger.
Among saucers to drooping candles,
Death goes to notice
Your crippled, weathered form.
I bring up the sound
Leaving the music of night unsung.
Silent, in the faces worn
Violent, with the fingers torn.
Death went to notice
Joy’s slender, grafted skin
Painted to the blackest sin,
Marveling in all burned bibles.
The she who went to see
All messages made for me,
To gift her silence in the covering –
Pillows to rest, in smothering
Pain that dots the crippled form,
Silent and violent upon faces worn.
Her eyes, the lakes to reflect
A numbing guilt that did select.
Modern Romanticism 