Where I feel,
When I feel
From somewhere deep,
From a place, fast asleep.
I do not dive
To know from where it quakes,
To merely survive
At the toll of what history makes.
Within words, so transparent,
Though, sometimes untrue,
I look to the dark
Faces, that surround me.
I realize their wisdom
Is so unseen.
I look to love,
Comprehending its fill of a gap,
Enough words to make a book,
Recounting disuse
Of the past.
A bandaged form,
A twisted neck,
One broken heart, merged as two
Of togetherness,
For the faces, blue.
I kiss the beauty
Of her great might,
Folding knowledges of a book,
Its spine never shattered,
Its space,
Always mattered.
Modern Romanticism 