Modern Romanticism

A shell has returned
to its home, finding shelter
within a larger shell,
within her own Hell.

Filter through her heart,
all that has begun to bloom,
to see that nothing restarts
the life from the silence.

She carries a torch
with the darkest flame
to light her way
back to that place,
where she will play
with burned photos,
with the ashes.

Like a child,
sitting in a sandbox,
her despair,
her unbecoming air
provides rain
to such a desert.

Tears cover her trail,
her footprints in the dust,
disallowing those from
exploring her secrecy
to hearing her wail.

Love will punish her,
for she misinterprets
the hand from the nail
as to which digs deeper.

But death always comes
to dissect her, to soothe her
with the smell of iron
all around her eyes.