White noise, three dimensions,
crystal sounds in each corner,
in each life we faltered our attention.
They were a highway ahead,
turning straight, becoming dead.
A mindful muse, a pattern upon your lips,
one path through the vastness
weakened from our arms.
Where were we?
We were driving a sentence forward,
whether to Hell or the next word.
Lights were used to eclipse us -
to the dreams that turned to dust.
You sat there, arms open
to the wind that pushes the stars.
Waiting for the next draft,
the nearest change of mind to a graft
in which replacement follows emplacement,
in which life follows its anchor.
Forward, to the next breath
where hope leans on the space, meant
for us to drown in coming kisses.
With phantoms to our disguise,
shadows arranged, deafness to our demise.
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Modern Romanticism 