Modern Romanticism

You’ve drawn yourself
in corners, as one disconnected,
resurrected shadow.
You were bleeding your hopes,
across portrait-covered walls.
You were blanketing your scars
behind an ever-thinning veil.

I am here, imagining your face
as a wondrous array
of truthful dismay. And are you
seeing me, cloaked in uncertainty?

Blessing your tragic form,
like a petal, receiving its sun
after a fateful infinity
of absent moons.

I’ve kissed what little
I can keep, what more
you can surely weep.

You are rediscovered, in your shell,
though you are not doing well.
You’ve reminded your reflection,
of your vain selection,
between black and white
images of regression.