Modern Romanticism

You've shaken tragedy
of all its different variety.
With all the leaves
you have collected,
you cannot wait
until you flood the world
with your perpetual state.

I cannot find it in myself
to hold my head, to ever cry
until I've made my way
to the truth, when I've lied.

I cannot weep even a puddle,
while you can stand there
bathing in oceans,
writing your name,
until it vanishes
in the ripples.

Death has dried my eyes,
my place in this universe.
It has deafened my echoes,
whenever I've shouted
to return the signal.

The signal that repeats
all I shut the door to.

I am not here
to hold despair,
in a bucket.

But you are there
to build a tower of waves,
to keep your thirst sated
until nothing
except for you
is left to be saved.