Pale form, solid shape
torn to dark matter in her
faceless void.
Why I, did not
endeavor to cry
for the grace
brought out into space?
Wings had danced, greater
in the joyless smiles,
left for the fading soundscapes.
For beauty that dies
upon a stretched bough,
hung there.
Without answers, with murmurs
uttering the futile question, –
as she stands, breaking herself
along the waves,
bandaging her lips.
Torn fingers, carved hips, bruised breast.
Fill her waters with a familiar color.
A splash of blood
that her eyes would melt
into the crust of her reflection.
Lost sentences.
Rediscovered words.
Marred face, brought down
at the silence
from her tears.
Avowed promises, dreams of some
remaining star, before the sun
disguises each.
Modern Romanticism 