How many strings
Attach the chord
To the vessel
Of what has been sounded?
A heart beats
With rhythms, undefined,
Healing injured promises
By the faintest, vainest flow
Of red, along the longest ropes
Called veins.
Bleeding
Undesirable certainty
Of mindful eclipses,
To woeful glimpses
Of the way in which love runs
Down the hollow curves.
How many chords
Detach from the strings,
Overflowing our scenery
With sounds, never sights?
The lies we relive,
The lives we live,
The trust we rescind
From that which cannot die.
Love, the puddle,
Deep to ourselves, of no reflection,
No resurrection
In the surest sunset of our crimes.
Love drinks steadily
The flow of exacerbated, red wine.
Modern Romanticism 