Holy hope
of something unwanted
in its approach,
while the devil inside itself
will find other guilt to wield,
to carry as a heavy torch,
the lightest of light.
Bleed her
on the cross,
open with her loss,
broken in a place
memorable to forget, –
while fading eyes never see
the cadavers placed next to she
in the final hours.
Caress her,
undress her
to stitch the loose parts
into closed hearts.
Her love, bandaged
into fragile sensation.
The lust that she
burns off, with the flakes
of gnarled skin,
come running into another wake
of a man with fire to his eyes,
winter to his skies.
Faces, heavy
of hers, the moon she uses
to scorn the earth
with unbridled sadness,
torture and madness.
Funerals, many
to embrace the hugging earth.
Love in a quickened heat
to fall into softness
where petals hang as necks
off porcelain sheets.
Modern Romanticism 