Modern Romanticism

Bending echoes,
brought out from a lingering
puddle – one that ripples,
in the senseless storms
I keep reaping.

The winds,
the dirges,
the dismal howls
from a throat, that kisses
have long-since abandoned,

but here, you remain.

You speak, from that tainted shore,
where letters, drawn over
thickening lines
were left.

With more time
to be, with whatever
sands have kept,
in these bleeding palms,

held onto like
precious isolation we gave into,
or disposed like
warnings we chose to ignore,
under reddened skies
where wings forever soar.

We began holding oceans
in our eyes, with their
infinite years.

We gated, we sealed
memories in secret cages,
locked like familiar scenes
to hold onto,
from afar.

Let yourself know
that I’ve not dreamed
with an anchor being buried
in the mire,

despite our veins having been
stopped of their flow.

Despite our whims,
we’ve made a home on the rocks
where ships were wounded,
where hearts were lost.

Some will follow
each step of a bloodied stream,
but we turn to the rust,

letting kisses rot,
when we must.

We’ve imprinted our stops,
hearing heartbeats flood
eternal emotions across,
towards spaces
we will not go.

We’ve taken notice
of an observant moon,
bright to its gleam –
as it glances
to our surrounding bloom.

We’ve been overlooking
a time to surrender, to streams,
to a familiar rush,
whenever to be back-to-back
in dirtying wars, inside the tides.

When we’ve crashed,
we’ve faltered, in our ways.
We’ve lasted,
if meaning to present ourselves
as smoke, from fire,
as words, withdrawn like tears,

caught in our lungs,
hung from our eyes.

We lack the control
in letting anything go,
to risk us, for a freedom
with memories,
in tow.

I trespass
on your gardens,
lingering here, observing emptiness
from a vacant pair
of eyes, encased in wonderment.

To let you know.

To let you flow
from this barren setting
to an aftermath,
reunited with color,
retelling your tale
around fire.

To hope, beyond all that,
that you will break free,

beyond all that
keeps you occupied
in your searing mind,
from those that
have settled you into memories
that continue to rewind.

To let you go.

To let you run
to find the setting sun,
to bring it up with a rope,
drinking gold
from a well,
one where love and beauty
forever dwells.

You cannot be
what they will catch,
like a fly for a web,
like a child for a bandage
after falling.

I know this danger.
Loose, endless, and simple
in its message,
though reminding you
of all that never was
in your palms,
like fallen petals.

I realize where the snow falls
on each tress of your hair,
brought back to set up
your eyes, to see the sunrise,
but you’ll be looking back,
soon enough,
not soon enough.

You’ll be drawing curtains
over illumination.
You’ll be bringing yourself back
to those tides,
letting go of the rain
caught in your whirling eyes.

You’ll be remembering
all those figures passing by,
as you’ll be treasuring
the dark, in its depiction,
stamped like a letter
that defeats you, depletes you,

but given to your hands
to remember you,

to remind you,
that you were more
than what you see towards
all closed doors.

While everyone watches,
as others desert,
we are fewest
to see what remains
inside two pairs of broken hands,
sifting through remains
of burned photographs.

Living in each other’s breath,
living for the moment
when we will be buried alive,
mistaken for further death,

though we are eternal
in the pain that keeps eyes open,

aware of our truth
with our noose coming loose.

I know to know
if we will continue to follow
this long road, like outstretched arms,
when clouds begin to gather,
when breath becomes smothered
in distant, grey scenery.

I want to know
how we can keep up
in times we lift the other up,
against flashing thunder,
against what threatens us
with sorrowful rain,

Would we sense glory
on that next kiss,
within the dark,
the rain?

You’re there, laying on
clouds made of your restless rest,
thrashing in uncovered
nightmarish hue,

while letters are written
as stains, in your heart.

Another pitfall,
another ruined night,
running with the collective –
driving yourself through
the madding crowd,

finding a torch
to set your mind aflame,

finding a church
to bring unholy tears.

Who gets to know
who you pray to,
wanting for salvation
in your setting eyes,

those that weep?

Who are those that keep
your fears,
from releasing rain?

If hope can keep us
pretending to be present,
seeing nothing but gravity
taking leaves down,
crumbling our walls –
those that have been built
on muddied, bloodied ground,

I will, too, pretend to sleep,
hearing our hearts when they weep.

Coming down, inside our graves.
Crawling around, like earthworms.
Being naked, while fighting
against infinite turns,

as we thrash in this place
where we have crashed.

We hold hands,
we are tangled in veins,
as we have been roped in, from our feet,
to be dressed in burning pages,
wrapped in heated bedsheets.

Loose, like the gravity,
while kisses are painted, everywhere,
like autumn that scorns the bloom,
having ignited in this echoing room.

Cradling the other’s head,
in gnarled hands, while reading
what the other is thinking.

We’ll remember nothing
the minute we fall asleep.

She’s used to leaving
rainfall, behind. Where there are
footprints, retained at what
kept anyone, going – she would solidify
nothing, while everything
kept itself moving.

She’s used to seeing
destruction, disease, and
all that we never were,
inside her. A heart that feels bliss,
at the red behind a kiss,

one that none of us received,
while drawn open curtains exposed
those misunderstood remedies,
those that we believed
might be her serenity.

I have been going north
to see the blue,
to find whatever might be
brand new, when the sun
has begun faltering,
beneath these defeated feet –
an ungraceful setting.

That setting
of eyedrops, dewdrops,

petals, leaves given weight,

and I am still moving
forward, for something to see,

after I have mirrored myself
on someone, on something to leave,
in peace and finality.