Though we
kept brushing aside
grains that set a stain,
our lips
found a depth that we
might have kept, were we
to remain asleep.
Grains to our dust,
in our death, upon reddest rust.
Countless as snow
with summer bringing
our bodies low.
You save a cripple
from peddling his favorite
time to keep selling
his heart upon a hook.
You send over a kiss
to remind these ruined eyes
for what it took
to renounce bliss.
Screaming metal
forging a tear out of mimicry.
Stilled voices,
broken symmetry.
All fades in a distant collapse
where ruins recede,
time lapsed.
Modern Romanticism 