Modern Romanticism

Descend. Tell me
what story you've written
for me to read.
I'll be there to commit
both lips, to taste
what words linger
on your ripened tongue.

I'll remain here to see
all that you've presented
for me to believe.

Dying angel, you have
been given too many
dying promises,
where all have burned
along with your wings.

You've been left here
to crawl on limbs
you have never used.
For you used to fly,
covered in adornments
that disguised your
need to ever cry.

I want your place to be
what surely will mean more
than all you've come to
vehemently abhor.

Your distaste for a place -
a grave that has your name
engraved in red rust,
will soon be replaced
with warmer space.

I'll hold you in arms
that'll recreate your wings,
for I'll give you a chance
to flee, if you see me
as a mere mimicry.