Modern Romanticism

For this, beneath,
I must be silenced,
in holding your head.
Both of us are dressed
for the disguised dead.

Direst admiration.
A complexity, to this designation.
I see what took turns
reprimanding itself,
finding its spot
with internal stains,

because, did no one
find purpose, through to you?
Into that one rock, you became,
with motionless comparison
of no one and nothing else.

I am here, to love,
what I can run a hand
across, of its colorful form.

I can beg with an eternal strain,
for gated breaths, barred light
from the warmth of Heaven
or from the sparks of Hell.

Because, how will I wash you apart?
I hold your hand. I bless your skin,
with lowered tears,
until you are dropped
to run with the tides
of countless grains.