Modern Romanticism

Old statue,
blatant figurine,
with thinly weaved beauty.
Who will you be,
after waiting for me
to etch another mark
into your shape
of delicacy?

Standing there,
shedding sweet tears
from a hollowed-out stare.
I have been broken,
without a faintest regard
for what comes next.

Just a doll,
as a memento
for a man,
who took a fall.
A plunge, without breath
held for a hundred waves,
upon a monochrome ocean.

I am tossing tears,
no longer to quench
a bottomless thirst,

in being here,
carving you
into infinite years,
while  light fades
into exhaustive shadows.