Modern Romanticism

In these hands,
adorned in bruises,
I have found something
I find impossible to discard,
to treat in its entire form
like worthless to scorn.

In these arms,
serrated with cuts,
bleeding down to the bone,
I am wielding something –
someone, whom I cannot let go
while this mind
surrounds itself, in shadows.

In these eyes,
sundered from nights
without rest,
under constant test,
I am viewing who has remained
more than a wandering silhouette,
more than a vanishing spirit.

Blended in with this form,
like melting snow
creating the same puddle
with an identical reflection,
there stays someone
I cannot return
to its parent cloud,
to its twisting sadness.

In this madness of love,
I am keeping the one
who swells for a feeling,
in dwelling on the healing.