Modern Romanticism

Holding it, 
the coldness
leaves its mark,
tells of its once-existent
presence, before a fade
of a crying moon.

I wonder at you,
when you came from
waters made of iron,
colored in a drainage
of a felled heart.

When I did kiss
what can come apart,
I brought it further
into this shell of discoveries.
Whenever I remember
all that curved,
after each step towards it,
I revisit its burial
in a graveyard, a mind
where thoughts rewind.

Skin to cherish,
ample in where it sprouted
all curves of this world.
Like a globe to hold
in one shaking hand,
I'll fill it with light
to see down its pathways,
extending sceneries
where all that still grows
is more to know.

My worship
at a temple, to surrender,
where all your secrets
are the honey
on a desperate tongue.

What beauty
to forever acknowledge,
whenever it welcomes me
to a constant occasion
to seek relief in a retreat.