Poem – “Loving Hell” – Modern Romanticism – 4/26/2022

Out of time. Hellish and confined.
The clock stirs, in silence
to the quickening sound of a heartbeat
while flowers are hurled
every thousand feet.

The winds are mild,
no one will catch this fever
I have been trying to kiss away.

One more tick to the placement
of a brick, to make this wall
surrounding every color.

A garden burned, smothered
while time expired to the duration
of the fire, to the sensation.

Her loyal waters. An ocean’s gulf
to reach for, to be engulfed for
in the bleeding, tearful moment
arms were wrapped as loose branches
avoiding the lick of the flame.

The winds are mild,
as nothing can yet catch
this fever, unless she draws closer
to be the curtain for the dark.

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