If she
can contemplate me.
All that she
heard of this feeble heartbeat
loving for her own heat,
for those blooded veins
that boil when I pass.
I stay
as a blank shadow,
asking for life.
Asking for life,
even under pressure
of borrowing
a sunlit kiss.
Asking for life.
Repetition within strife,
while blue goes above gray,
while sickness smothers
existence of days.
As a shadow
who asks for life,
asks for a comprehensive
entree of light.
Who am I
but a blind before daylight,
but those shades
before open windows
sighing for a better life?
I ask for life,
I beg as a tired pauper
for even a burn from a touch.
I beg for no more
to be her light,
when all I had been
was a desertion, for her
newer life.
I beg for light.
I beg to be relit
like a bulb that broke
with all these outstretched limbs
bare within winter,
bare without life.
Modern Romanticism 