Night.
Crawling. It is unboxing –
the daylight you weather after –
in the voice
where you are sheltered.
Rain comes down
to cry for you.
The sights. The afterthought
for what pours after the thought.
During the multi-facets
in the intimate
rhythm of the ultimate –
rhymes, decorated in blue,
after the storm
coated us in gray.
And light. Vibrance in you
wants to let loose,
waits to be undressed
by hands,
never minding. Never the mind
that keeps itself closed
upon all kinds of kindness.
Look out. Spout
repeats of a similar time.
We were, like tears floating as
crystals. We were
as facets. We are
as gaps. We want
our eyes to find symmetry.
Modern Romanticism 