Modern Romanticism

Adrift, you'll be
wishing for stones to be
closer to contain the fire.
You choose to be
that far, while waters
are leaving your eyes,
making for a sea,
one that remembers,
after it dismembers.

I've come to repeat
those words that you call
a comfortable lie.
I do not aim to leave it
like a weight in your lap,
if you can connect it,
its meaning to a man
with his own share
of desperation.

Who am I to torment,
to continue the movement
of a paranoid vessel,
moving through your veins,
your unchanging heart?

Who am I, to be revealed
as another feather to make
the softness under your head?

Are you to be held
in arms of stone,
with a face full of sadness
observing where you are?

You feel what doesn't relieve
itself upon the fire, within
the flood inside your room.

You might come close,
you might share it,

or you'll recognize
that these arms will fall,
when they become tired,
they've had their fill.

I am not your immortal,
as I remain, when I stay
being your eternal.