Two faces reject
The simple state of being
For the other, among the other
In the creeping arms
That tear apart
The other.
Into distant arms
A storied kindness dwells,
Made of makeshift consolation
With winter’s backbone,
Masking the strength that never comes
With the waves.
Simple tears broken apart
With the sliding current
Across faces made of ivory.
Gentle in the cruelest moments,
Watered to the dive,
Sickened to the plunge
Beneath the surface of remembrance.
A face made of stained-glass,
As tears create the mosaic
Without the artist’s capturing,
For he was thirty days dead.
Pulled apart at noon,
Torn apart without the moon
To show the phase of idleness,
Hinted by the slow decline.
Modern Romanticism 