Red dust
To the overgrowth
Of flames
In the recession of her skin,
To the waves of her breath
Bleeding to the finest cross
To bear the weight of yesterday’s sin.
One memory
Heated by a lighted wick,
Sends signals to streets, emptied
For that which is sick.
Love’s bluest sound
Of grief that stings the next cheek
Over the one who did sleep
In the night’s warring of tears.
Bleed the rust
About where nectar circulates
Between legs of the most swollen
Stains of flesh,
By the sickness of starry nights,
Beneath the moon
By its great pull for the ocean.
Her judgement
Connects sadness to song.
Her eyes
Were here, all along.
She fuses her mind
With her heart,
Gathers the stems of long roses,
Kissing only the thorns.
Modern Romanticism 