My tears may soak each page of every gothic romance novel I possess;
As my sadness and my hopes are integrated; becoming one; they've met.
I was reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein a couple of nights ago;
Fog blanketed what was left of the night.
A heart half empty; wounded with woe;
Love collapsed back to lust; such an awful fright.
Coagulated blood surrounds my heart;
As gothic romance creeps into my art.
The screw has turned and I have come undone;
As I am isolated in loneliness; I have no one.
I was reading Bram Stroker's Dracula a couple of months back;
I took solace in the fact that I related to the novel's villain.
But, what does it say about me if I relate to a creature motivated to attack?
If I love once more am I destined to lose again?
Running out of time like an hourglass;
Should I stay like this much longer; I will smash.
I was reading Oscar Wilde's Picture of Dorian Grey an hour ago;
In a repressive, manic state of mind I don't know who I am.
I gaze into the mirror and see a man I do not know.
From that unregistered reflection I darted; I ran.
Should a new world lay between awake and asleep;
Oh how I wish I were in a slumber far too deep.
Gothic romance may find me in my dreams;
As Shakespearean sonnets drown out my screams.
I was reading Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights as tears filled my eyes;
As the fog returns, rolling towards my home in the hills.
How can it be allowed that our beloved Heathcliff dies?
How can we be happy in life when every breath kills?
Finding fear in fiction is something I am well versed in;
I have been to one too many funerals.
Snapping back, just like that; I find a new state of being to live;
Something unearthed by something sinisterly hurtful.
My tears may soak each page of every gothic romance novel I possess;
As my sadness and my hopes are integrated; becoming one; they've met.