Holding now
What little remains
Of your porcelain mouth,
Of what words I did contemplate
Under the barest moon,
Lifting my features
Apart from doom,
Healing a heart
That never died for you.
The simplest beat
Of an orb of red
Leaves stains
On the floor, where walks
Decrepit feet,
Bleeding toes,
A horror upon the shoulders
Of a man in his woe.
The cold iron,
The rushing crimson,
With veins that hang the neck,
As arteries turn black.
While the mind holds little
To scorn,
As the hands hold nothing
Being born.
While the silence reminds
A heart, of gravity
To weigh the red into the dead,
Sinking the redness
Into rust.
Modern Romanticism 