Still-rain, wiping your drive
from the eastern route.
Enter mourning with the tears
frozen on an encased face,
falling expressionless.
Count you, follow after
the needle can thread a wound
together, in the night,
after everything received sight.
In love, within you.
Bleeding to a distant current,
abstracting you.
What keeps the sunlight
beyond the sunset?
We wrap, while we entrap.
Arms have yearned more than eyes,
more than lips could fall upon
the flesh for taste.
To the end of a mile, where tears
are wetted in bitterness.
A smile did no more to save
than our solemn realization
to find love depraved.
Modern Romanticism 