Holding teardrops as melted wax
On fingers gentle for eyes, detached.
A view displaced, on its side,
Crossed at the roads, at the weary feet,
With blindness that never saw tears
Shattering the newborn mirror.
A defeated reflection that could hide
At the bliss for all being matched.
Here, the train exits the hands,
Leaves for the graceless funeral.
There, the waters were leaving
While blindness turned from believing.
Hurt at every droplet
To fill the birth of an ocean,
Cupped in misted hands,
Shielded before each brittle strand
At the face, the twisted faucets
Driving the rain at no notice.
I could never cry
Without a question for why
These clouds were the shadows
Weaved together as the lie,
A smothering blanket in a meadow.
It was where the wind, so warm
Closed what would be torn –
If idle hands were here
To pull me apart.
To be broken in the same mirror,
History looks on to linger.
Modern Romanticism 