Here, stories cry
Within the turning pages
Onwards to the furthest future.
As a mile presenting hope
Washes ashore,
It drifts in our hands
All the tears with the rose petals
That would not melt slower,
From faces and abandoned vases.
At the first page,
A blank slate folds
To each brutal sigh
From the laughing ocean.
One that promised another tale
To be told,
Without a sweeping gale
To set the scenery to fly.
To cry
With burning pages caught
Against twisted fingers,
Left to hold the next
Ruin for the skin.
For fires put out by the dirt.
To flesh buried with the hurt.
Winterly eyes,
Crystal rush
Death’s lustful complexion
For pain’s resurrection.
Christ bleeds again on the cross
Dying among his symptoms,
In the quakes of eternal loss.
Modern Romanticism 