With all walk-backs. Back-track
your eyes behind your skin.
Find your field. Your field of vision
translates words beyond a book.
Read language on my heart.
An oath to be broken
under sun or moon.
Pale, or ignited, at the
same place we are muted.
A kiss had startled you
when waves brought in
debris from a sea.
We are not good. For goodness
can hold in eternal denial
a brittle hand of wickedness.
We fold our covers closed.
Shut that door. Leave behind
dark smoke, to dress us.
I can always love, if hatred
can bring me to feel all these
sores that were open
with battered doors.
A clog to a heartbeat.
One long road, with bedsheets
tying our sights together.
We lust under velvet concealment,
gasping to never breathe
while our eyes never sleep.
Modern Romanticism 