How many seeds planted
To grow what never wanted
To lift from where it fell?
The moon smiles to sorrow’s spell,
Joining the vacant night,
Leaving fog for the curtains,
Exhaling vapor upon the windows.
Is love able to clothe
A senseless mind that loathes?
One face here for light,
One form there with fright,
While sadness keeps trickling
Marble streams down cheeks of flesh.
Blood keeps whispering on
For distant faces never listening.
Her depraved sounds for
His collection of sickened birds,
His thoughts with crystal words
That keep setting aflame.
Her watching eyes that
Hold themselves upon his cross,
Weeping still for all is lost
While taste to blood falls flat.
Shadows crawl to her,
Faltering to swarm her,
While she welcomes them to her,
Lifting a veil to what stirs.
Come to drag her scenery around,
As shadows with no hinting sound
That her past was also yours.
Modern Romanticism 