I have lifted. I have always cried. Of stones that were carried in my arms, while tears fell from them, soon as they were squeezed.
I was expected. To release truth, I was expected. Like love was something I could fall through, beating my heart, burning in my skull. I released. I let go myself, to the winds, where my truth, my outpouring cries could indeed be heard.
Love. The only emptiness to be had, webbing my heart like I was the fly. To its death, and then, to be held inside my mind, as if God were the spider.
I do not bleed. I only have lost.
Love is something I can exhale, to embrace the remnants of something so related to vapor. Of some face held, to some field wept upon, to raise stems with the petals. They can all lay at my feet, those petals, and still appear as fallen autumn leaves. What is my depression, as only a kind of ache, without its understood ending? No story leaves pages emptied, just like the painting cannot be made with blankness remaining.
Love is that, for I can see something that is so blackened. So much darkened, in a void that was once colored, though is now the opposite. I hold a strand of my own hair. I hold it, as I perceive its grayness. How can it be, when I am still so young?
The years behind me, moving forward to place my steps, I can see no light. Like no light were waiting for the ship I captain, to be set safely ashore. As if no island had been waiting with a weeping sort, to welcome home my presence. As if I were to become a stranded vessel, having hit the shore with an concussive impact. I shattered against stone, sounded in tune with the frailty of my own heart.
For it is that he dreams. He melts himself, masking a future by what is behind him, hidden in the snow. Love is a shower of cold for him, whether too many hidden secrets have shared the warmth of ice, or the glints of the fresh snow. If too many hints of a nothingness have grasped at him, like memories of what had been, then it can be no longer.
How alike, to a woman, where his memories are forged. How so much similar to a womb, they are released, though born backwards? Strangled by the stem of sustenance, by the umbilical cord. So much the image of a leader hanged. No future, for nothing of the head can carry his body forward.
Pain is his sustenance, breathing on fumes that choke. Fusing himself with the stench, that only ever a certain history gave for intoxication.
How alike, to a woman, where his face shows itself for a kiss. So much for a kiss, that rips apart at this woman’s face. It crumbles, as each fold of a lip is tied together with her. Two faces, mourning over the loss of the self, the loss of self-understood truth. How breakable, the both of them, when they never turned within the grave to see each other.
Upon the death of some stained truth, love became their wish, once more, in the eternity of sleep. In a death of hearts, love motioned them into stillness. Their faces would not receive the other, in any conceived smile.
Passive, in a dark corner of his personal world, where this man shelters himself. He churns, like some somber child. His face speaks the same language as his quivering hands.
How does the world close itself, of its bottomless horrors, when this man merely wishes to fly? Running offers him comfort, though to only more shadows? Love does not ever start another fire, over the sick and loud memories that stammer his voice.
His eyes hold music boxes, while his fingers twang the heartstrings of some instrument recorded to the former. The return of simplistic playback, the music that possess no authentic value, controls him in his heart. Why has darkness formed an empty road? Why has death made his life walk backwards?
How is it, that with eyes opened wide, he can see no light?
Modern Romanticism 