I haven’t lost
this memory of you
that blossomed in the blue.
I haven’t walked
miles, for nothing
to keep me covered in moss.
The stone who clings, –
takes his eyes out,
pulls himself apart,
while time stands still,
holding me close.
I have not lost
the stain of yourself
in the soft moss.
Rings are multiple in the tree,
the age of everything alone,
while roots are spread.
A finger, lit as a candle
or a fuse
to erase what will not ever
become blank.
In this forest
where eyes are multiple in
the night, as I’m closed within –
faded chapters, a teeming sun
remaining lit upon its vain
stay, beyond the curtains
of depressive night.
I want to fall,
but the song keeps itself
clear, as all things
remain in fear, as dear as you
in the nighttime blue.
Modern Romanticism 