I am an infant
Carved from my own tears.
I walk atop black earth,
Fumbling through the whitest memories.
A clarity I cannot ignore,
A blank canvas, I abhor.
I am a man
Whose first steps were over a cliff.
I have been dragged by a rope, backwards,
Bleeding from dried lips,
Requesting water from clouds,
To become, from dirt.
These roses give nothing.
Those soldiers fight everything.
A sting to the flame,
With waters that spill from the scar.
Blinded at soft petals atop these eyelids,
While winter climbs on my shoulders.
This dirt raises everything,
Except for myself.
Tears fall to keep me down,
Blood spills to keep me flowing
With the trains of no faces,
With the roots of no true direction,
With the grains of sand at the shoreline
That though infinite,
Have no one to guide them.
Modern Romanticism 