Modern Romanticism

I’m leading the arrangement,
presenting the symmetry
to your frozen glare.

You are receiving
only what stands out
in the bitter cold.

You have your orchids,
your primrose,
your tulips, your violets,
but you crave your thorns.

You want what doesn’t die
when it’ll survive
into the mash
of echoing yearning.

You want what you’ll
bring back to your head,
to break in the form
of heaven’s grace and bread,
and it’ll weigh you down
as if you’ve eaten lead.

Rewind yourself, please,
back to that time
when light was less hollow.

Refit yourself, to sense
what can’t go wrong
when you wear your halo.

All I see from you,
when love buries its fangs
into your pale body
is a reaction, as if
I’ve scratched your skin.