Modern Romanticism

Pushed into bold,
cold words, from an old heart,
that lost itself on its start,
on its voyage
where everywhere
is an emptiness.

I am sending you letters
with stamps like fingerprints
on stained glass.
I am weeping what little
I can spare, for your thirst,
for you to escape
from becoming worse.

You are living in your merge
between a split of waters,
where one part drowns,
the other buries
what you've forgiven,
but remember.

There is nothing that you
ever seek to reveal
that isn't already here,
bleeding while awake.

There is nowhere that you
will venture to tread,
where fields are not already
filled up with the dead.