Spit your taste on the door
While songs repeat, as hearts pour.
Your eyes were never the circle
I could perfect, when tears flood a floor –
In a space, infertile,
Yet scenic within lost light.
With death, some crosses are better judged
While winter can empty
Our time in the hourglass.
Our shoulders rubbed, eyed smudged –
From the grains we lost count.
How many tickets to Heaven
Can you buy, selling out to no crowd?
Our hearts, everything spent
On sadness biting its nails
For our feet traveling the idle trails.
Some blood can be sweet
With the right flow, with blind rows –
Towards the falls with kisses meek
Can be buried into speech.
Though the love did not last –
With our texture, our futures past.
We ate to no one’s attention
The flesh for another resurrection.
We eclipsed, with a smile –
That dirtied itself, upon the mile.
Nails stood higher than our heads,
For a pain we loved with dread.
Modern Romanticism 