Modern Romanticism

I hear, through those woods,
playing back to me in rhythms
of an oaken heartbeat,
that there's everything
to be afraid of,

while I wait to sleep,
as I clash in these shadows,
passing time as I weep.

I fear, within these thuds
among a sheltering existence
that rain can come in heaviness,
more than where I'm buried
in a bed made of dust.

I am ill, to keep singing
of life that continues to cry
under clouds made to pass by,

though I am unaware,
blinded under curtains of soil.

I realize just this presence
of a form that deleted its soul,
letting tears fuel this
never-ending sickness.