Modern Romanticism

Helpless, your sorrow
feeds on its own cruelty.
I've come to grant
water to your fire,
saving you from your
blindness, your smoke
that trails into infinity.

I'll lift what heaviness
distracts your shoulders
from hands, made to inspire,
made to present your retreat
into an embrace,

one you've yearned for,
one you've long ignored.

Bliss is an ingredient
I'll present, I'll multiply
upon your tongue,
within your hands.

Have what sweetness
will coat you, will warm you,
to find Heaven before death,
to savor life in each breath.

To raise a garden
inside your mind.
To build a fortress
we'll not leave behind.

To fill all gaps
in a space,
in an enclosure,
when we can say
that all of this
is our only way.