Modern Romanticism

I have been in
these wet grounds, hugging
bandages of soil. I keep these
fingers pressed against
a lid, still too far away
to see another day.

Buried in thoughts
that eclipse a former time
when pain brought life,
while heartbeats now bring
sickness with strife.

A rose, I grew
out of brambles.
Thorns pieced love’s
every vein, to leave paintings
as bloodstains, where
might have been
solid footsteps.

I look back to see
those markings, those scenes,
where droplets from one
beauty’s blush, were all
to give me relief.

I look forward to believe
in nothing to conceive,
while I lay here in shadows,
drunk on memories.