Modern Romanticism

Leaving outside to dry
a world I thought was secure,
even while its oceans
were formed out of blood,
kept showing me answers
while I kept turning back
to the darkness.

I was begged to plunge
all these screams, all of this
I kept cradling at its neck.
I wanted more from it,
a life, melted like snow.

I wanted what I could not
find enough strength
to leave behind.

Voices had gave me
a glimpse, just what was
a spark I had spurned,
while I was feeding flames
with flesh I kept cold.

The pain had told me
there was nothing but it,
while I wanted more
from the darkness
of a merciless womb.

It told me that
there was no life
to what never began.

I held onto a mere piece
of some cave-worn crystal,
reflecting back what I
also saw behind me.

Mere tears, bled from fears
that I beat into their
endless continuance,

for I was here,
pretending for the sake
of something I'd not break.