Less to be, made to be
absent, apart from thee
inside the wandering puddle.
Straying too far
beyond the beating tunnel
with shadows, around.
To the sun, to the eye
that was never meant to cry
while death created a nest,
with babes against the breast
teeming for the afterlife.
The cradle, the fragile terrors
a reflection wreaks.
The sun bent its touch
to warm the coldest vessel
buried in a hand.
The moon began laughing
among storms it fled behind.
Love meets me, greets me
with stars gathered in arms,
with eyes bleeding in the dark,
with a face smeared by the last kiss.
Sadness trails, mouths have wailed,
speaking to Heaven, no more.
One warm night, one dark flight
to be the bird losing wings.
Modern Romanticism 