He hates, with a mind
that remembers nothing
but the song.
The dirge in the distance
to longest locks dressed over
a casket of an empire.
Her face, the shortest disgrace,
set above a form of broken twigs.
Her relief in her last breath
had swept a curtain over her.
Her face is kept
with the same brittle tears
as sap to the sleeping tree.
Fires run in the kindest grave
to mask a mother, never a mother.
One streak coats her eyelids,
a singular hue from the sun.
Foul breath mingles –
from choirs to this dead’s pledge.
A certain button pressed,
the machine that runs the paper
copying a future of midnight
that he had memorized
the flows of poison in the roots
of an apple tree.
Modern Romanticism 