Born. I had come,
bringing tears, into your
steady arms. I have answered
your prayers, under dim skies,
though you always
wondered why.
You always gave into
doubt, with never a truth
to be covered, when it ever
had been spat inside
your open mouth.
There, with open arms,
with nothing more for yourself
to see, as a place full of harm,
because you have gone
with sickness, for the sun.
You have found your own,
of children who are new
to your drear, to you,
my dear. You have found
other answers, at the end
of one glistening rope,
though hoping
that it will continue
at more rewards, at when
you approach a door
to see something more in store,
while nothing changes
in your heart that has
crippled itself.
Unborn. Now, sheltered
under this same earth
the both of us had tumbled over,
had slid upon, clumsy in our
disbelieved hours.
Modern Romanticism 