Hell for her.
Her symptoms, synonymous
Inside complex falsehoods.
Buried eyes
Under clouds, for coffin-lids.
Wiped wood, with
Varnish that bandages truth
In the gleam that stained her cheeks.
Walk around
Cold, remain the warm
Sight upon her fractured hourglass,
Weeping to the same sprinkles
Of water
From some unknown storm.
Love leaves her
Torn, among thickets and brackets
Encasing her name,
Weeping for her, waiting for shame
To be the same curtain upon the lane.
Love is never music,
Grief is not
The repeated sullen word.
A rope attached
To a pair of bones,
Left as legs.
Her eyes, always
Growing a garden,
Six feet under, a mile wide
Where the sunset divides.
Modern Romanticism 