Modern Romanticism

Inflamed, to touch him
means to see something
going black, in widening daylight.
A scar, a burn, a bruise,
a sore that neglects, that ignores
his uncontrolled fire.

Leave him with his torch.
Do not bring it forth,
humming his tune
beneath the radiance of Neptune.
His tears are his ocean to find,
where his face paints a trail,

never failing to remind him
of a constricting history
that continues to rewind.

Let him go.
Do not let him know
of his rain, of his snow
extending a shadow
that grows.

Love would blind him.
Fear will remain kind to him,
revealing him,
while stinging his skin,
forging him into ruin.