Tend to the grass
That burns, within the forest pass,
Upon the road that floods
Our thoughts covered in glass.
Mirrors against where Heaven stood,
Next to fall at the pinnacle –
To an ocean, shredded of debacle.
With stains against snow-touched cheeks,
Presenting symptoms to the bleak.
Here, the eyes have withdrawn
From the sun’s rise at dawn.
Folded hands, prayers to a reflection
Burned at the foresight to the walk.
A wilderness where eyes attract
Their doom to the backwards tracks.
Tend to the grass –
With those sounds of cries
As gulls above the desert glass.
Down they slide, from loosened ties.
Down the birds glide
To the stains upon the grain.
Down the eyes travel to earthen shapes
Within each melting tide.
Once to rise, next to fall
In the space between the growing trees.
Once to walk, next to crawl
Upon hills that never look back,
While the sun would fall behind.
A terrible storm that grows for roots,
While eyes hover at cloudless overlooks.
Modern Romanticism 