Modern Romanticism

It couldn’t be
what you hope
it to be,
downgrading to dirt,
resigning to hurt
of not the meaningful,
beautiful kind.

You want space
to reveal such wounds
you’ve undressed,
you’ve allowed
to become infected
with your tireless
misconception.

True love was the knot
that you’ve untied,
that you’ve wrapped
of decaying strands
around your bruised,
breaking neck.

Beauty wilts,
while you strive for
the embrace of someone
who understands
more your fiction,
than your truth.

It helps you stay
still like ice,
yet you are melting
with the subtlety
in faintest yearning
in your eyes.

You are disguised,
to ever repeatedly
look the other way
towards where
darkness is signaling.

There’s no more
for me to do,
save to build a wall,
to blind me
from seeing you fall.