Modern Romanticism

I can see all
that you pretend to be,
in your tragic calamity.
I want to be cautious,
stepping around
these stones,
those that circle you,
but are not your embrace.

I believe in none of this,
while you weep through
the lines between
your upraised fingers.

You cloak yourself
in the dust from dead stars,
in the weather
from soaring thunder.

You beckon, but no one
has brought you to their
welcomed attention.

You want to go,
while no one lets you
wander up close,

as radiance overlaps,
but it never kisses
the ruin in your heart.