These shores
Can shoulder no further dust,
Of no more than you were buried to be,
Beneath the steps that walk, casually.
You can beat the heart
Even further for me,
When I am onwards towards the naked shore,
Apart from sea.
You can skip the sounds,
As I remember them.
The thunder claps
In its applause, continually.
Our sorrows, meant to be bandaged
With the moon’s tearstained face.
The sun and its warmth
Has fled past its setting point.
I am no longer here for you,
Holding a diamond as I always do.
These crystal waters
Have swallowed my voice.
Those white sands
Where, in your collapse
Are for bleak funeral marches.
Storms and kisses,
Trembling fingers and bloodied roses.
With the curse of love,
I am blessed to hold the oars
Within hands that held stones for tears,
Even on sands where no water makes its ride.
Without your existence,
Reflection is elsewhere.
It is beyond oceans,
Beyond suns,
Beyond damning shorelines,
Feverish formations
To my own heart kept in the clay.
Modern Romanticism 