Yourself is the idleness.
Gleams the sun, for your eyes.
To decode each vessel in your mind,
While the moon attempted to revive.
Walk for the grief-filled morn
That drew the melting curtains.
Walk in the sounds of birds,
Losing feathers upon the mile.
Our tears mixed to make the oceans,
Our hands held to form the land,
While floods were brief,
Being broken without earthquakes.
I believe in your ruin,
Facing the sight of your dismissal.
I believe, even as I deceive
This heart, for your revival.
Scenery of thorns
Where no love is born,
I am counting the sparks,
The cremation of my tears.
Modern Romanticism 
“I believe in your ruin” … gorgeous!
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