Modern Romanticism

Let the colors seep
in between. I know what hurts
your heart, whatever burns
within each vessel,
without anchors.

I know about everything
you have lost, you have refused.
You bond with shadows,
lifting light, in the folds
of sacred bedsheets,

where a rush depletes you
into becoming cold stardust.

Scarred, ample in worry,
as a petulant thing.
To colors, to your disease,
love always weeps
countless raindrops from clouds
that gather, like your pages –
written in haste,
absorbed in promise.

What footfalls, what marks
upon fields with faded headstones.
Names aren’t being read
for time’s forlorn worship,

but you count who fell
for your barren cause,
for your despicable flaws.