Beautiful scar upon
The repeated soil, where you kept
Sealing a heart to the crust
Of fire, for a face that wept
The ocean into repeated sounds
With desolation on the horizon,
As voices seem to die out
With the cold breath,
With the warm death,
While love’s future seems so specific,
Inside of life, so horrific.
Washing our wounds, to part,
Healing our hands, to grime,
With rain against the discarded heart,
To faces, reminiscent of time.
How many words are repeated
To the one so heated?
Holding a hand,
Kissing each finger
For nothing to linger
In each timeworn craving
There is, to be saved
For shackled eyes, in the haze
For each fire in the morning
Inside the fertile craze.
Believed to be, the empty yearning
For no sounds in my singing.
Modern Romanticism 