Modern Romanticism

You’re there, laying on
clouds made of your restless rest,
thrashing in uncovered
nightmarish hue,

while letters are written
as stains, in your heart.

Another pitfall,
another ruined night,
running with the collective –
driving yourself through
the madding crowd,

finding a torch
to set your mind aflame,

finding a church
to bring unholy tears.

Who gets to know
who you pray to,
wanting for salvation
in your setting eyes,

those that weep?

Who are those that keep
your fears,
from releasing rain?