Those burial of eyes
down into
sickness and vapor.
Watered down,
handed down,
with forever becoming
a brittle leaf beneath
twin stone feet.
Let lessons
become songs,
if you are able.
Walking ahead,
kneeling down to
break apart those dead,
without smiles
to always dread.
A summer’s surrender
to symptoms remembered.
I have always
nurtured those drops
from your unshielded eyes.
Pure to all pale
paper, where notes of grief
are sung to our belief.
Walk on, before
infinity fades
in those crystal mirrors.
We are sure to
hold onto our hearts
holding onto
this light of
distinguished love.
Modern Romanticism 