Suffer, in place of the blame
upon the barest throat,
where you,
the love of mysteries, begin
to whimper breaths, begin
to savor
those moments, before
your coming death.
Take your hand, cradle each finger.
Recall moments we were children
in the arms of fertile meadows.
Glance your eyes watered of a garden,
wide in language, closed in open sorrow.
Vulnerable, undoable from a heart
unable to cope upon a slope,
with a rope, –
to tighten these wrists
in the bliss from the unremovable kiss.
Suffer to take your place.
A throat, bare of soft snow.
Laid there,
worn over where sadness stares.
From a moon
that never changes,
never removes its gaze
even when another flame is lit.
Modern Romanticism 