First of the dry
beneath the pale complexion
of a beautiful moon,
you cry
with an ocean to displace
from a heart, to flood the earth.
First to start
your journey to the depths.
Last to be birthed
as the still-life, for the sunrise.
The first of many fogs
to lift to your eyes.
The last of all those walks
to the cliffs,
to toss your aching heart.
How often you
lose your trace, down a cheek
from a wandering eye.
With sadness, you
share us symptoms
from the fire
when losses smother you
in loose ashes.
First, to the season
where loss follows loss
on a downhill stream
in the midnight screams.
Modern Romanticism 