Modern Romanticism

A new ghost
who lack wings.
A crippled angel
who spreads fever,
a warmth to be caged,
to forever fade.

Who told her to stay
with shadows,
those that linger
on the edges of her fingers?

A candle comes close,
with the flame staying distant.
Nothing’s ever true,
as she melts into morning dew.

A sickness to be loved,
as sickness demands the flame,
though all she casts are shadows
that trap her within shame.

All she creates are dark cloaks,
inviting water through her eyes,
breaking her into floods,

breaking her, as it would.