All faces come together,
weathered in rose.
Blush at the cheek,
silver in the breath.
Deformed in winter,
wilting with the drying tears,
matching the puddles.
The fading reflection –
that weeps without looking back.
A love resulting from Heaven,
A Hell tossed from the skies
skipping on pools of magma hearts.
There are marks in your stones
that face the numbest
of limbs, on the edge of winter.
Our faces marry together
the stars discovered in hearts,
seen through the eyes,
though the kisses will become
mere embroidery,
bandages upon the wounds,
soil over the graves.
There are outlines drawn
upon your headstone.
There are colors being ignored
while the years face yesterday.
There are eyes never looking
at where we face.
We see our wooden chamber,
while our thoughts are forever.
We see our faces in
the rocks, the wounds,
the bandages
nestled within.
Modern Romanticism 