Walking this track
Idle in your eyes, coming back
To repeat the words
That from your lips, were never heard.
A form dipped in a lake,
A set of eyes in overcoming sapphire
To glisten the moon into red.
You were traced, born upon the wire, –
Around every curve,
Weeping in place of dying.
The trail runs cold, when we swerve –
To empty our lungs at sighing.
Speech comes at the cost,
Our place among earth, with sceneries lost.
To bow to kiss
The red within sand, the deepest abyss –
Has me hold upon
Those sounds you gasped,
The pain you held upon.
Kissing the one grain that remains
We held, we knelt
For, among symptoms of pain.
To each form that wilts,
There are feelings to mask –
In love’s vast grave
For a life past, one never saved.
Modern Romanticism 