Modern Romanticism

Bloom phantoms.
With us. Forget us,
this world of infinite
tomorrows.

Soldiers weep on.
Sunsets bring down
a bucket to our eyes,
bringing up
a lake-full of your
premature desertions.

You took apart
your flesh. Behind us,
death lurked with
faces, too many.

Shadows build a hallway.
Love creates a ceiling
for pleasure’s releasing.
While we reknit
these eyes, opened with
tears roaming on,
hands will commit
to those places, buried
beneath where we sit
to see a fatal sunrise.

One love soared,
as sadness dipped
its feet, into places
we call away.