Paint your eyes red.
Fold broken hands,
praying to what is dead.
Speak in gentle whispers,
encasing your soul in a frozen tear
held back for many years.
Love blooms on your back,
with the rain, the dew
finding meaning in nothing new.
Cry for departure,
for the ships carrying your earth
to bring you home, to birth.
What time is love?
Which day will you next grieve,
absent in the story,
shameful in the memory?
Was the sky blue
in the answer given?
Was the sky gray
when love was sent to Heaven?
Your heart was pulled
on puppet strings,
You became
the wandering puddle,
the great, bleeding days
beneath the storm,
beneath the fewest rays.
You are in love
beyond your touch.
Modern Romanticism 