Modern Romanticism

Golden tongue,
silver streams
eluding starlight
under dreadful dreams.

With more you reckon with,
the more that you weep
with a pair of eyes
showing no mercy.

For you to speak
means to whisper,
means to never change
stories shared,
skin flared.

For you to be,
without what weight
presses against
your deformed heart,
means to not.

This world
is never to your liking
while you’re raining
all the oceans
of their water
that cannot quench.

Build your city
of surfaced death
next to roses,
drawing your last breath
through a final smile.