Drifting into the eons,
Drafted as the sketch
Upon the clouds,
While you look up
To see the raindrops falling
From their hollow birth
Of empty heavens.
In arms,
We hold the other,
Believing sadness can burn itself
In the wind,
Loving still with miles between us,
Shattering ourselves
In porcelain reflections,
Leaving ourselves
Upon empty highways.
Onwards, with tremor
To the ends of our fingers.
As if candleflame could light up our eyes
In this dimming circus of misfortune.
Drifting into each other,
Holding the other
In arms made of glass.
Conflict stirs the heart,
As the mind draws the curtain
About where tears drop, freely.
Blood flows past
The distant starlight,
As dreams mind themselves,
Beneath the moon.
We love,
We fall, from above.
We shield
As still-life, of no reason to yield.
Modern Romanticism 