Modern Romanticism

It was a black image,
wide in its deep serenity.
It was an arrow
piercing a forlorn heart,
finding that answer
I'd never again question.

It was a blindness
encompassing two eyes.
It had its own storms,
bringing on its dosage
of bitterness, of uncertainty
where hands are striving
to remain clean.

Love is that essence
to create, to recreate
without clear depiction,
forming shapelessness
in infinite twists.

Love is that force
that forces creation
with its constant,
undesired repetition.

Heartbeats struggle,
while palms are held
close, to the fire,
as pain is the name
for our skin.