Beneath, where the cliff
loosens its falls, its running stream
at the torn page, of ivory.
Water keeps whispering for one heart
in a gallon, while sinking.
Teardrops, nestled in sentences
too few when against the border of lips
stuck upon the tongue
with flame to seal us tight.
Stolen language, –
a funeral, sceneries pillaged,
while winter carves out stalemates,
in frozen sacrilege.
Lost to another in loving ways.
We wilt
for tears to break boundaries,
bleeding in ways,
never before smiling
at the crippled song.
Our pain, this rain falls to sting us
close to honey.
The ocean had us close to breathing.
The skies have us close to soaring
with bent neck to drink
our surroundings.
Modern Romanticism 