Modern Romanticism

Somewhere, you’re swelling
from under your eyes,
letting graces go with the stars,
eclipsing your sun
with the moon
you hang high.

You’re drinking tears.
Nothing quenches you,
because your resolve
is more fertile
than the road you walk.

To take the token,
to take the train ride,
you’ll have to rebreak
the wound
you’ve left alone.

You’ll need to bleed,
to flood your damp world,
the one you can’t abandon
to the light.

Your shadows will flee,
when you fail to hold tight
the sickness you won’t cure,
the cuts you won’t close.