Modern Romanticism

These walls
have not been painted
with an unmistaken,
hopeless vision.
I've come with color,
revisiting the white,
sharing memories
to be framed.

Hell is all to be well,
when I am weighing
a cemented crown
upon a mind,
one that's lost
all that had a cost.

Heaven cannot send
its tears to flood a fire
that quickens its spread
over encasing ruins.

I have let blood wash
these hands, into a crimson
stain of all this pain,
as I crawl back into words
I've long repeated.

What can I commit
into a grave eternity?

I've lost count
of all those times
I've attempted to push
the bullet, further
into an open sore.