Modern Romanticism

I have, at last,
seen through to your
unearthed image.
It's been strangling
its own shape,
back into contours,
back into thin lines
no one dared to cross.

It's been your loss,
letting grief become envy
where you leak residue
onto infinite sands,
instead of meadows.

I am here to make sure
no light reaches you,
while purest darkness
has been kept waiting.

Death has been standing
upright, at a door
I have come to hold open
to enter its eagerness.

You will creep forth,
sending mixed signals
where you'll desperately
wish to recreate
what is too late.

You will be begging
on knees made of stone,
burdening yourself
with the blame,
while asking for it.