Modern Romanticism

This time spent,
sinking into thought
after burial of isolating,
fragile depictions.

Songs were wept,
bodies were traced
in their unity,

as I have been marching,
sleeping with these roses,

as I set gardens aflame,
while losing control
of who and what to blame.

Down to earth,
a miracle would break open
a long-closed eye,
spilling what should be
brought out, brought within,
into hands that clutch the dust.

Up from nothingness,
down from this formless shell,
I cannot imagine that Hell
can be simpler to picture,

if this remains this life,
holding onto beautiful remains,
feeling alive for the dead.