Modern Romanticism

You've come far,
but you've rejected
that place where
your hearts calls.

It roars with a heat
that doesn't subside,
scalding your flesh,
melting what resides
always on the outside.

You've kept yourself
cornered within corners,
framing your excuses,
while a painting
in its colors, continues to
reveal what's recollected.

You will eventually
come to realize,
at your final drop,
that this sickness
is nothing for a fever
to be its eternal warmth.

Weep, instead of continuing
to keep what's spreading
its contamination to all
you'd do better to protect.

Let yourself rain,
even if storms will stain
your shielding fingers.

Let yourself retrain
that burdened mind
to give back what's overdue.