Modern Romanticism

Carrying a torch
for a bed, to burn
those photographs, imprinted
on scented bedsheets –
of foulness, of flavor
that drenches this air,
this naked atmosphere.

Her salience. Her importance
to be high among nests and clouds.
A queen, of damning privilege,
having knowledge over none
upon this bloodied field,
where flesh remains
a soldier’s shield.

A ghost, into midnight,
she goes. A wandering drift
with countless ashes to sift,
wishing she could lift
that veil covering her rain.

A telltale brokenness,
peppered in loneliness.
A wanderer with a soul
that burns, into the utmost
trialing period of her winter.

When will she learn to loosen
those teardrops, those knots
from her unearned Heaven?