Off track,
behind the times
of everyone else’s smiles.
Fill me with blue,
remind me of the sea.
Elevate me with the moon
while the sun goes to sleep.
I can run around,
toss around
while the earth jogs its mile.
Into November,
where eyes can remember
the speech that told a pattern
in the leaves.
The fallen, scattered.
As those swept within
were against the grain,
were sun-blocked,
were in pain.
A pair of lips
brought me clues.
A set of arms
carried me warmth.
I fled into the sunrise to replace it,
to answer to the eclipse.
What road do I follow?
Which path will not appear
so ruined and shallow?
Modern Romanticism 