Modern Romanticism

Faint trill
turns into winter’s
tyrannical chill,
once you come back
expecting paradise
to be dumped
in your lap.

Over me,
your streams leak,
as you bite on the lips
I once kissed,
I once heard were
of promises kept.

You once said
you were not
going to ever let
the tides
be to your worship.

But you hold on
with hands that burn
for this tension
to rise higher.

Is there not a drop
of anything
not in connection to fear,
to the tears,
to the smears
over your delicate,
smooth face?

Summer’s symphony
pledges pages
for your harmony.

Do you deserve it,
while you writhe
like an infant,
or an insect?