Modern Romanticism

You rave on
about what I do,
not know why
I’ll end, this way.

I’ve grown to see
the patterns of my
helpful ecstasy.

You’ve been watching
with a torch to hold,
with words most bold.

You’ll judge, even until
God himself promotes you
to be near him,
at his side, with no one
to condemn your practices,
to breathe scorn over
your faceless tirade.

I am even
with the playing field
of life, gifted with
nothing but a page
to write the strife
I’ve aged with.

Love soothed nothing
when it had only
blown wind to raise up
the licking flames
to make the welts
I forever treasure,
I forever seek
when what I will want
is to sustain this,
the undying bleak.