What is left
Upon starlit eyes,
Where galaxies shift into
Wasted constellations,
From sheltering
Consolation.
The running dark
From the milky white
Waters the hands of God,
Among the fruit to His garden
As wrath boils
In the fervor.
Passion entices
Lost elements
To run with the wind,
To that vacant heart.
Share the weather
For not what leaves
With the breeze,
Bending branches to burial
For a thousand more
Risen sculptures.
Why do the rocks
Carve themselves,
Into dust?
Modern Romanticism 