Modern Romanticism

Outside from pure fantasy,
you’re a ripening fruit
meant for harsh reality.

All times you deny
a throne for your
exquisite pain,
are times I come by
to remind you
of your epiphany.

Let your eyes survive
these glittering nights.
Memorize those seconds
you’re here to admire
your reflection
in fragile glass.

Let your limbs erupt
from your spot of safety.
You were meant for
more than you
will abhor.

There’s anguish in all gifts,
a theme of such rage
in all too terrifying
to accept.

Better to embrace it,
but not to smother
what’s inside.