Fatal, in your burial
beneath the stay with me.
You wash the stars clean
turning white slates into bleakest
reminder of your universe.
You walk in the fog.
You look for me,
bandaging eyes most damaged
under the cloudless skies.
Do you bare your wounds
with pride or shame?
The crimson to the neglect
is the connection to bloodline.
Leaving your scars
etched in the dirt.
You yearn in the sudden gazes
from the sun upon crippled flesh,
weaving memories,
as a child who might
break their gifts.
Sift, as you will
bring out the words,
cold and soundless
to their expression off
muted lips.
Speak. Wait no more
while the future haunts you,
more than the past.
Modern Romanticism 