Fly up. That winter blue
among grayest eyes, needs
no truer shine. All that a sun
will do, to crack between
depression’s clogs,
will begin our trek onward,
apart, from bloodied arenas
to our feuding hearts.
All that our kisses can deplete
from deception’s care, we can
continue to believe. Sculptures,
a fire’s hardening. Faces,
a cruel winter’s passing.
We carve out bullets from armor,
to be dressed, in our frail skin.
We send tears, against brittle ashes,
falling from monochrome.
Write your notes. We have been
brave enough to reveal our
connection on summer’s wind.
I am holding open empty hands,
while you use blackest pain
for your ink, from your brink,
a cliff where you once surrendered.
You recall those days.
Those days you fell
from encrusted sickness
in a wound that festered,
while you were roaming
in forests, without boughs,
without arms to call home.
I rename those days.
I brand a smile into
your thorns. Face another
shard of daylight. Do not erase
this summer’s sweetest taste.
Modern Romanticism 