A blade in the thick of grass,
A waist meant for the grasp
From a thousand drifts through the yearning.
A sequence while we melt with the snow,
Two sentences we could not ignore
Leaving each other’s lips.
Two committments
We are unable to trace,
As we keep feasting
On roses of an esnranged garden.
We weep
In the midst of a burning world
We choose to ignore.
A slender curve,
A fallen hand,
Four burn marks from the touch,
While the thumb was pointed down.
Twin candles
Melting at the stem.
Our growth, in vain.
Our symptoms, broken from veins
That were the waters
Before the dams, our eyelids
Opened, to see where we failed to sleep.
We weep
While we cross-dress
With sandles to match the desertion,
With heels to match the missing grace,
With wigs to state
We were cancerous in our own growth.
Before the spread
Of thighs to match the toxin,
We were cells
Before the fall of Heaven.
Modern Romanticism 