Life comes in ripples. Satisfaction arrives in miniature; it has been said to her, while any evidence had never been whole. In this monarchy of her ways, she gloats without true glow. She taunts an image inside her mirror without always looking its direction. She sees herself. She knows herself, simply as too spirited. A woman of better means, without anything meaningful.
If she might ever have a taste of life, truer life than what she has lived to her current times, she will spit its contents back out. She will chew on it, withdraw that velvet, smooth taste from within it, though will fling them back out from where she analyzed them. She retains curiosity. She disposes of what resembles imperfection.
One man had walked her way. He took her hand. He led her. She led him astray.
She tortured his eyes into white, while his heart fused with his soul as both burned black. He lost himself in her, while she found something to take, while he resided as both stranger and a stagnant friend. There had been nothing to develop out of it. This connection stopped as a fuse to a cannon will, while an army still approaches. It can be noted she still waits for this army. Some advice once given to her, “satisfaction arrives in miniature”, and she offered thought to those words. She offered this thought during occasions she missed marks. Satisfaction. Can it be boring? Can life offer more? Only more? More of what? More of those same intakes, it might be.
Bone dry. Callous. Whereas, wanting. She desires a truth, where others are patient on that arrival. In life, enough patience will tell you to keep hopeful while maintaining that wait. Enough waiting will grant a person nothing.
Her mind, all composed of a rock within rapids, where all things of twigs and farewelled leaves float by. To this woman, those objects are as those clouds hanging in midair, like ravens on nooses. Nothing gets itself absorbed into her, without leaking back out. She sees herself in a mirror, constructed out of oils and dryness. A sliding side on one end, with everything deserted on its other.
At a second of her sensing something truthful, she turns around to see herself in another mirror. She has turned around to find a direction she missed. One opportunity filled with color, while she decides on that as deceit. She turns back to see her image, complicated in status. She recognizes tears falling to smear her reflection into disarray. She sees herself, lets tears fall to a mirror. For that mirror has been placed at her feet. A standing mirror that does not stand. Tears smear her reflection into disarray. An order she knows.
She stays as this. Uncertainty. Tiredness. Broken eyes leaking their inherent disarrangement onto a bitter reflection, worn through. What nonsense of being. What a mask that ties her into a hardened bundle.
Modern Romanticism 