Modern Romanticism

She chooses her own,
lets fall those who surround
her ghost upon a throne.
I will bring her a rose
for it to decay.
I am reminding her
of a swell, filling up
her repeated Hell.

I am failing to light her eyes,
even with a wick that stands taller
than its bent candle.

I am kneeling before a puddle,
after teardrops collected there.
Its reflection shows her seated here,
basking in one isolated stare.

Love stretches its roots,
while developing its stains,
measuring her time
filtered through grains.

I have arrived, if to give her
a minute more to survive.

I might shelter her wounds,
while her history unwinds
from incompletion.