Blank, that. Blanket those
orbs of spider-woven breasts,
while we breathe a town
into infantile silence.
Slender one. Tender, to none
other, than a man’s hunger.
Taken in. Taken, again
to see your eyes this helpless
to bare your flesh, in sickness,
safe in a sinful story.
You warn me. Kept to being
careful. While I am here,
you will demand. You will
entertain these commands.
A throat for these hands,
eyes for no lands,
looking up, while you
become lifted.
Music. A rhythm, one that
conflicts as it constricts
our words into sighs.
Lifelong tempest.
This bedroom of dust
holds in imprints, our hours
of voiced lust, printing
our names in red,
keeping us defeated
in arms, for those dead.
Modern Romanticism 