Slowness to sobriety. Fill me up with the porcelain from your eyes, with the sentences that perspire upon the lids. Keep me afloat in your drunken state, in the arms that swim, while nails begin to dig. You let fall your fingers to pierce the wood of a coffin, while I am settled in the furnace of death’s warmth. You tear. You yank. All of you wants me to lift this side of myself, though I am too heavy. I am simply wearing my tears as crystal or diamonds, though the wealth could not be brought anywhere else.
Futures with you, all crushed. Slowness to sobriety. Stay with your own, the fevers upon your cheeks where kisses were laid by others, among the snow. Among the debris, the dust is yours to lay blankets over. Express your hope, where flowers are fallen. Keep your eyes closed, when the sun begins to set.
A funeral demands a winter. There is a raven, among the clouds. There is ice around that animal’s eyes. There is all that, while talons have scarred my symptomatic heart. I once felt love, as though a sickness. Offered of friendship, presented in the ribbons in radiance. Offered of another heart, asymptomatic of the tendrils of love’s blight. A head caught in a curtain, with nothing transparent around. Here, to being lost, where love presented its cost.
I find myself in a heath, where winds come weathering my ankles, keeping my stance a sore one. Funerals walk alongside myself, in the depression of abandonment. Friendship tossed me, overboard. I disused myself, against the coming waves, gifted of the flowing and teeming winds. Coldness, as an encasement, once then to drink of a drunken stare, last to see me drowning. Of an anxious embezzlement, being that theft to a broken and useless heart. I disused myself. I fed myself to the fanned flames.
Fever and winter, with raven talons to scratch my worn heart. Like a cotton shirt, ripped with ease, much among the brush that grows the same for the garments of no real warmth. Just a yearning for summer, of being appropriate against the idea of winter. In being buried, I became the blanket. Just another sadness, among the heat, within the grain, drunken upon the waters that come collecting to me. Into me, those waters, as they silence my pain, if only for a moment while the rest floods on.
Modern Romanticism 