Modern Romanticism

I was wrong
to let these hands
find their way
to close around
a light, discovered in
the prison cell of someone
who wanted to remain
covered in her stains.

I cannot clean
a certain sickness,
from the heart of one
who finds no meaning
in a foreign devotion.

She views these attempts
to bring her into view
of a scene, that has
been grown out of weather
that does not differ
the thunder for the rain,

though all of it
looks the same.

Nothing can repair
the darkness in those eyes,
that are guided towards windows
to see the flashing horizons,
to feel the debris of clouds
upon her naked skin.

I hoped to cross
the shadows, with her
seeking healing from beyond
a driving storm.

But nothing is able
to bring to the surface
who doesn't drown,
who has found a home
in her ruins.