Weeping among burial fields,
Bandaged in a curtain
That opened with the open wound.
Each cure stings,
Every sickness reigns
In the throat,
In the bowels,
With the words I breathe
To let loose
As seeds for a burned meadow.
With these hands that draw back
From the ice that coats the eyes,
From the skin that rubs off the cheeks
Petaled with tears
Falling for years.
With these feet that step back
From the faceless sculpture,
Outlined in the mirror.
Back from the sinister, perplexing shape,
The aura that trembles
In the death of a heart,
There is more to imagine,
Less to remember.
I worship the fog,
Breathe the city’s smog.
A filth within the burial
For a thousand more crippled, injured
Veterans of their remorse.
There is the paint
To remember my face,
While eyes and a loathsome smile
Will remain the white
Knuckled tensions
To another year in the desertion.
Modern Romanticism 