Say your sadness. You have
always been burned into
screaming your madness. You
have always longed for
a watering touch, from one
pair of approaching eyes.
You have burned for enough,
falling apart, long enough.
A bed for you. Rest for you
to never count what has
been left. What stays, inside
a closed shell, on your soul,
on your eyes – a building’s
inferno. You ask, to know
where relief will be.
Your questions, upon sheets
of snow. You ask when
grief will release.
Tell those oceans. Tell your
heart to quicken itself.
Command your eyes to run
rivers, past me. When I
grieve, I want to hold your
floating hand. When I
love, I want to keep you.
I want to keep you
from feeling.
Bleed on. Bleed past me.
Move on to abandon me,
under a moon’s eye,
within a lonesome,
nighttime cry.
Modern Romanticism 