Fable this. Tell this
upon telltale symptoms –
you connect, among this
virus, called love, called
another symptom out
from someplace deep,
from somewhere
unconcealed.
You are this stain;
rain upon a crude
shelter, while nothing
moves. Each word
buried at their third
degree. Each smile,
all frowns, taken
to graves, into walls,
burned into dust.
To dust, coating your eyes.
To rust that stains your
fingers. To love that never
fades away. To loyalty
that suppresses its ways
from every day.
Insignificant. In memories,
among sculptures. There are
songs we sung. There are
flames that move.
There are shadows
that shift. There are
hands to sift. As ashes,
we have come adrift.
We have warred, without
knowing when it will
stop snowing.
Modern Romanticism 