Hold our lips. Locked on
to running waves.
We feel a noose wrapping
our once-kissed necks
beneath gentlest sunrise,
walking close,
creating weathered footsteps
in breaking earth.
A late sound. A false cry
about to take on a smile.
Some change in this scenery
has stretched our gaze.
We see ruins become messages
in their dust.
Long rope. Longer tug
to meet our death,
while memories stay
to dream in translucence.
I’d love to take our terror
under an ocean,
facing scorn from crystal blue,
a burial where no ice
can form.
Love goes one way.
Life finds that other
to crawl into shapes, into
elements that disappear,
reappear as unfolded paper,
speaking words of insignificance,
sheltering flesh
of despised remembrance.
Modern Romanticism 