Modern Romanticism

Spill from your eyes
the sequences,
the sympathy
for what you know
I will do.

You reflect
from within tears,
the strangeness
in all that circumvents
the true poison
that circulates.

It instigates,
as you anticipate
the added fracture
to an old wound
that never mends,
until it is you
who doesn’t pretend
this isn’t for show.

Others have given
their dose of concern,
others have added
their color to the pattern
where pain ripples,
where peace fades
into stardust.

You’ve not been here
to stick out your worth,
enabling what’s free
to be unseen,
but not forgotten.

You’ve been here
to cripple your name,
to drag in the shame
that holds on,
that pours over
what you remember.