I count you,
leaving as dust,
smoldering over, in red,
upon lips, decorated
with rust. I am sheltered
in surrounding fog.
Blanketing memories, ever
keeping me near
to surrender. When I
pray to those clouds,
I still find everything there
to be collected in
shivering hands.
Those moments I come out
to see a sun being lifted
from somewhere distant,
I begin to feel an ocean,
before my dive,
I feel where I might have lived,
before I died, before I cried.
These times when I open doors
to see something else, I will
face everything that I have ignored.
When I turn back, I will see
another door, back to everything
I have adored. Back to all
that keeps me against a wall.
Cold winds, winter’s kin,
summer’s abandonment of
this blissful sin
that keeps me living in
a repeating fatality.
Modern Romanticism 