Don’t run, don’t hit,
don’t abandon the prize of a heart
torn to the ribbons
it was wrapped in,
it was waiting in.
Washed in the blood
both our visions shared.
All eight of our limbs,
embracing as the spider,
as the liar
with insects crawling
between us.
Living in ruins,
walking on glass from a mirror
we were glancing in,
seeing something breaking in.
A shadow came walking out
from apologetic flame,
from blood in the lane
where mixtures turn into departures, –
where significance turns into reminiscence.
A tide on the side
of a cheek, where Heaven kissed,
where roses left scents
now carried in arms
towards the burial
of a familiar sound.
Your blood is my poison,
a venom that turns the season.
Rewind me from perfect red
to a bleak uncertainty.
Modern Romanticism 