Modern Romanticism

If this were valuable,
if this were yours,
you couldn't laugh
when drops of blood
are all that's left
to be cleaned.

You wouldn't be
stabbing open wounds,
deceiving me into
yearning to undo
your alienation.

Love flooded fields,
gave us harvest,
granted us a tide
for growth, for both
of our hearts
to decide.

We weren't meant
to be ones to hide,
while we were
always open
to confide.

Light shined when
we were wilting.
Water quenched us
after a long drought.

But it is now
when I want out.

It is now
when veins bleed,
not for what I need,
but for what I
starve for,
what I crave.

A sense of freedom,
to become a puddle
where reflections
are not muddled.

Wings won't burn
down a different path,
after an autumn leaf
has been turned.