For the infinite
knows no start to hold
a hand, on this sacred land
where your lips
were the fine wine to tell me
secret words that were
folded in torn paper,
a crippled heart.
Just the end, to kiss you
beneath starlight and moonlight.
Just the last moment
where I lost it all;
above your grave, absent of all
I could not save.
Just Heaven
to send a burning star,
far apart
with the flame from fissure,
a ridge, a scar,
a river where in sadness, I swim
to believe in love I can rewin.
With the infinite
where there is no start,
no hand to hold for the journey
on a walk, alone
to your lonesome home.
To your handsome abode.
Standing up, looking up
to the falling drops, –
to your face imprinted in clouds.
A desert beneath me, an ocean
stretched out, in silence,
a melancholic shroud.
Modern Romanticism 