Even while piling higher,
faces come around, drown around
the last breath at the dawn
of a morning that never surfaced.
All there is, the mourning
waking potential smiles to recede
with the farewells, to welcome
tears at the earliest arrival
of unwelcomed sunlight.
They bellow
at the reprimand of a
plight of sorrow.
Ingrown in the disease
of grief, full in the sickness,
while their eyes turn hollow.
In here, with nothing to grow
amongst their fallen tears.
I have left pictures on the wall,
I have said what I said,
enough to stifle the dread
before came my fall.
Down here,
wrapped in mother earth,
dressed in bandages of soil
to conceal all of history’s wounds,
to dry up the scars
that were the painful rivers.
To be anywhere else,
To be anything more than this,
I could not,
for I am not.
Modern Romanticism 