I can keep you clear,
though you refuse to stand near
without showers crashing down
surrounded at these scenes,
among a lost, forbidden town.
Take me to your grave,
let me see your name carved
into white.
Let me see what differs
among snowflakes or those
collected, brittle ashes
that you became,
where you were renamed.
I have enough
to keep losing – holding hands
with your sadness,
your madness that stands
those burning forests.
Scenes that surround,
buildings the same as their origin,
lost, like lost in a wilderness.
Where did you come from?
We have all nailed your portrait
to our thudding hearts.
Though, corpses are ample,
are you prepared to be someone else’s
springtime tulip, that extends
towards brighter skies?
Rain can come
to take you away.
I can come –
will you run away?
Modern Romanticism 