Down the trickle flows
to an extended palm.
Liquor glows,
the afterglow of a drunken evening
I spent washing myself in you,
your tears,
the taste of everything dear,
nothing clear.
Parading solace,
a perfume of wild eyes,
crystal in confusion.
Widen the opening
to allow me entrance.
A bath to soak through the ruin,
to build another ending.
One more time
losing teardrops as the
traces of you, on the path behind,
where the moon sees the signs
to your decay.
In love, as each trickle
becomes a tidal wave,
a rush without ever the hush
from a pair of marble lips.
You are screaming
in the place where you
are closed.
I love, as I look above
to see the sun never setting
in your heart.
It keeps you knowing
that you are always burning
to become that which
you are turning.
Modern Romanticism 