Modern Romanticism

It's been a storm,
identical to all things dark,
and hazy. It is received with
one's attitude of stubbornness
to see it unlawfully remain.

Inside one's heart,
there's a bomb, its fuse
is already lit. But this
one, confined person
treats it as firelight,
as warmth for their hands,
those that are sickly
and pale.

A welcomed installation
of a furnace, fueled by
the oil of one's face,
the perspiration
that is the fear.

It is the fear that allies
with the certainty.

It is the certainty
that the storm will not
bring down its wash
to cleanse the oil,
the fear,

and be the coldness
that identifies the sickness
as no more the warmth
than the fire
of one's destruction.