Caught, open
with hands catching
the rain, to slip
from fingers to the discorded
mouth.
Can you sip
these words, back into
your translucent lungs?
I want,
wanted to be
successful, in counting the stars
within all the tears you fell
from the face of eternal grace.
Warmth, fatal turns
to the wrong parts of a heart.
Cold, brought down kisses
to someone who shut you out.
Can you sip or else
slip the words,
the rain, to avoid causing
the stain that allows me
to see straight to your ruin?
All darker sides,
losing turns,
won embraces in the sounds
to your cries, overheard,
and above
the freedom in flies and birds.
Run back, weep the trail
before nothing else
burns, the same as the cold.
You will want to see stars,
to achieve wars
for losing sides, lost turns.
Modern Romanticism 