Up from the rose,
towards moonlight’s spread,
I will find, with eyes open
your hand in the dimming violet,
the evening running away
with Autumnal decay.
Down from the noose,
in the arms that leave,
in bitterness and duress,
I cannot contain, you cannot
unchain yourself from the demon
who is, upon earth, a human.
We have both died, –
have cried, in the final hour
we were both lying
in the fields we were dying –
as the color in the sky
was still a soft blue.
As nothing could rain
from hard areas of our heart,
as nothing could halt
the music that kept going
until all we had
kept stinging.
Inside ancient ruins,
where love kept singing,
birds were prancing, quietly
over our graves.
Modern Romanticism 