To portents,
undesirable dreams.
With love
breaking chandeliers
above waking smiles,
we breathe for
another minute more,
before finding light
beneath, instead of where
we used to stare.
From gulfs, to horizons,
we kept our eyesight sore.
With hands around
a gem we adore,
life becomes less breathless.
To solvents, to dilution
in waters we were drunk
upon, in straight rivers.
To dreams we were asleep
to, unaware of eyes
that drove on to weep.
Burial has become cheaper,
flesh has been brought deeper
than all of passion’s fire
to bring forth ash
smoldering on spots
where we clashed.
Modern Romanticism 