“How can hope, be this sick?” says he, to the fog of himself, before the mirror’s idleness.
For a reflection’s sake, love is his only teardrop to come forward, marking his humanity into the glass. It is at his feet. It is a puddle, mirroring him.
A photograph. Of a woman, to the world. To him, a young girl. A lovely face, delicate within the shadows that encapsulate where this man stands, in the dusky debris behind an office building. A life of blood stains his hands, though not before the reflection. Criminalized, in behavior, though human, in the deepest stain of his heart. As a sun that sets deep, to light the ocean aflame, drifting tears to the edges of eyelids, soon at the pull of gravity.
Oh, burial of a song. A melody that would break Earth, to bloody Mars, as a longing by him to meet this face on the battlefields of greatest love. In his hand, holds his heart.
One demon, who would be him, the man as a criminal. Just a speck that should be erased, though what does he do? As a criminal, he commits theft, to bloody his hands in murder, to hand narcotics to youngsters at schools. Surely a derangement needing an eraser to rub it away. Though, to the heart that he holds, is not something so buried could become unearthed?
Is there love beneath the ruins? Catching himself, in the sickness of it, he lets bleed the tears onto both photograph and mirror. They’d not be crimson, for tears of that sort would merely blot out the reflection of him, in that murky puddle.
He recedes. This man, of much weariness, finds in him the necessity for movement. One step, before the second one comes dragging and crawling. A need to find food, and dine in a place of shelter. For water might find him, in sleet or rain.
Coldness. Bloodless. Feverish in the open, though of his heart. Still unaware of her face, to its recognition, for the photograph does not bare resemblance upon his memory.
For beauty’s sake, for admiration’s purport, it is something to have for a light on his road.
Battered in the inescapable anguish of not knowing. Not staring into dust for its art, nor seeking downpours to quench thirst, for nothing will make him a rope. Nothing will forge what is meant to tie around, then to pull, a future towards his thin arms. He walks. A movement that is at most, slogged, and at the least, dried. As a river that requires tears, he does cry. He does mimic the floods that the skies echo. He does extend storms from his heart, though soon to back into silence within the trembling shadows.
He loves. A certain residence, in his heart, that has swallowed something he cannot tell. All, but a clarity. Everything to him, but a swell, a surge of something extraordinary.
“Who is she?” says he, on occasion, to the curtain that conceals love.
Remembrance. That is love. Memories that lie as flakes of snow upon the eternally-warm heart, to wake it. Blood runs on. A naked vow into the dirt, at his feet, written with disjointed fingers. Though, no clarity. To him, no memory.
He finds himself repeating words into puddles. A photograph. No answers come aloud, creating cold sounds against warm veins, to shock truth into the blood.
To walk, would mean to go on. Though, in the second of his repulsion, drifting from his endless search, he stares to the beauty of a woman. Of a photograph, where answers never float up from the bright eyes, nor the dark hair, nor the lips that retain specks of highlight.
Modern Romanticism 