I keep buried
all the glass reflections,
all the emotions bled, upon a sea
of red. Will the earth feel,
in its stretch of shadows
from trees?
I wander in this falling sleep,
hoping for another mile
to keep me deep.
Drag the form through
the trail. And with sight upon
a scorning sun against
my brow, I strangle the words open,
“In the shape of what I bring,
pain is everywhere to sing.”
I keep hurried
this pace, outside from
the exhumed space.
Just a love to drag from a rope,
just a heart to pull away
towards hope.
I resist
the moon against the sun.
Drawing blanks, leaving pages,
while an eclipse stretches shadows far.
Ink blots on the eyes,
dark regrets within the skies.
This transparent face
carries dead weight.
Modern Romanticism 