Still, that moon
floats in a different hue,
aside from something new
she grew to know
down under cold clouds,
in her rain and snow.
I threw
pales of winter’s freshwater
snowflakes. I drew
lines in blank slates,
applying sadness in circles,
making divides
in deciding states.
I want to keep nailing
that morbid cross, raising portraits,
while destroying furniture.
I desire her
to lay herself down,
to stay herself in this town,
travel her eyes around
as I nourish, cultivate,
instigate a countenance to flourish
its pain in a singing heart.
I want love to keep sailing
on broken glass.
Walking above, where tears
are hailing. At rapid speed, at this
mast. While she brings rapids,
I smooth nothing.
While I stagnate our veins,
she circumvents.
Modern Romanticism 