When we
walked overboard, were we
falling through?
Heart within heart?
Against the silver of malleable eyes,
were we ever able, ever stable
through the rapids of rivers,
seeing us on reflections?
No longer kiss,
no further walk
on the boardwalk carved out
of drying mud.
We have screamed
until false voices are filtering
our bent forms,
with no submission.
Among all the puddles of raindrops
we let loose from firm cages,
from iron bars,
patterns of blindness –
that we did not miss,
our screams did not talk,
our cries could not ever shout.
Soil becomes dry
in this brittle aftermath.
Walking on fields
where the weather grows
from above to the letters written
beneath, that we
will see our reflections, our patterns
in the fall of each autumn leaf.
Modern Romanticism 