Modern Romanticism

What am I,
beneath this wreckage?
A grasshopper without legs,
hoping to leap from a cliff,
though motion comes not.
Just an unanswered shell,
who has felt his Hell
wielding him, deep within
his unshed skin.

What does the monster hide,
if not for his reflection in an ocean?
He dips his hands,
writes his name on the horizon,
hoping that morning
will forgive him from mourning.

To mourn loss, to grieve over
those trails where he left
his foresight to other beginnings.
In witnessing an ending,
all that had been left
was an endless yearning
to count stars,
falling raindrops.

Eternal pain grants warmth
to a scorned face,
reflected in waters, too deep
to bury himself.

Too deep, when he
finds it worth it to bathe
in where he looks,
in order to hate.