I
Dusty Skin
Now when all stars are dusted over with skyglow, we take our faces to what is still gleaming. It is forming. Guiding a man. A man who left the sun to rot in his chest, though the moon still pulls him. What forms, from nothingness, is a small, stripped piece of what this man was making as his once-true captivation. He once braved himself to create out of the ground, out from the small scraps in the heaps. Gathered together, though came to create form. It was formed. It is now dumped. It is forming all over, again.
Although, this time, it is forming without his hands. Without his interference, it builds itself beneath buildings. Even so, he sends a glance of his own. Even then, he takes his face to what is glowing from it, as a light of great blue, pacing in stillness as if in deep thought.
What has formed, without the sculptor to the sculpture, is a fleshling of a woman. A feeble, decrepit thing. His once-creation, who awaited his kiss on hands and knees. She begged for his staying. He built her, once upon a tragic time. He raised her, once finding it needless to let her escape to commit to life on her own. Once, during a half-life, he loved her to create the fullness, with the moon being present in his chest to reverse his eyes inward. At those times, he could see what would, during a time, rain, while other times, reveal a coming blizzard to descend upon the bloodied, life-like organ. Shelter mattered, to him, to keep her apart from strife. In his face, at this moment, what shows is a great everything that was abandoned to look down upon an almighty nothing.
An almighty nothingness that grows into a form out of formlessness. Much like a fetus to sprawl forth into one life that exceeds and surpasses all others, formed, raised, and made to grow further. More like the negligence that surfaces to be displayed, whether on canvas before easel or the structure ruined to still be admired, as the carving memory for a man to notice of one detail. One detail, with two objects of life to make it. A detail that to it, by itself, can be the sculptor to carve out the memories in this haunted man whose complexion shows signs of entertained trauma. He watches this detail, being two eyes, blue in their design, both ephemeral and eternal in where they watch.
Casting in a direction, as they do, to the crumbling walls of a shop, as marks of lacking maintenance. Negligence. Into another direction, following the trails of walking life, where smiles and faint grins are sparked across the daylight as settled dew within the scene of blue, radiance of an uplifted morning. Neglected or uplifted, as what does this poor, impoverished woman, with back pressed against the same wall expect of what either keeps moving or drops dead?
Her eyes are the sapphire that, to this man who takes his stride on ahead, will keeps his hands gripped in his pockets, holding onto nothing. Nothing and more than that, to him, with his face somewhat surrendering to the face of hers in the walks past, because he knows, that upon a time, he raised her. Not his daughter, not even a distant cousin. No blood relation, though the blood was pouring to keep her from the ills of the street. Why? When? Where was this moment? When he neglected, what changed? When he says, to himself, here in the next pace past her, “A forlorn sight, and a woman who can take the flowers in her arms, kiss them, weep over them as if being her dolls or children, though will never see through with the same blindness she gave to me,” what does anything mean?
II
Nothing so Apparent
Love is a ruinous thing. A martyring element, a force, of us, that we are confused enough to make apparent, for us, the self-perplexities that, with this man, talk us into waiting for answers. While one man is walking on past the pauper, the latter that has raised her eyes, the sapphire daggers, the spears, or the bullets that, with the former, were ever the remembrance.
She raises her head, upon a day deep in the dust, to peer him in the face. He stares back, and then he can swear to himself that a single tear was fast enough to escape his awareness, for he then afterwards forgot it was ever there. Her blue eyes gleam. Though, they cannot be seen in the night. He is never there. This is why. The reason? She does wait for him. He walks by. She looks up. She is raising herself, because he is no longer giving the shelter, the support, the love. He is no longer granting the kiss, the face that speaks the words, “There is no reason to fear.” Seen by her features, her present fear is to fall, to be dead in the dust where her eyes can no longer raised up to him.
She begs, though not for the random coin. Her sapphire eyes penetrate him, when he walks on by. It is not with resentment. It is with questioning. The question begs the why. This for her to ask.
Modern Romanticism 