Indestructible parasite,
Quickened to the grievous wound.
Bleak nectar travelling from
Dried, pursed lips.
We are that,
We were flat
Upon the desert’s oil,
Drinking the wine
We lift
From each other’s heart,
Watering our eyes
To fill a garden.
We are what
We do not ignore,
Behind closed doors.
Failing a life
Left close behind.
Each torment of us,
We return
To the desert’s reddish
Hourglass of rust.
For time, we’re able to turn.
Digested in the sore,
Rippled within
Deadliest streams,
Never ignored.
Modern Romanticism 