Feelings often cross.
Often, we become deranged,
drunk on something we name
a feeling this strange.
Emotions get tossed, over
cliffs, towards bottomless streams.
We endeavor to create them –
to succumb to weather
from our eyes, our skies,
our thoughts, together.
If you want to wait,
we will become engraved,
together, on a stone
where our hearts held their
place, to atone.
We will find our crippled feet
walking on bottomless clouds.
Sea sickness, emotional emptiness,
while we keep watering our roots
with salt from our wounds.
Creation of those holes, those
spaces in hearts that always go
diving for relief, below.
Cliffs where tears run out,
stopping at fresh tracks.
We had stepped in this softness,
we had caught ourselves on
a sadness, a vulnerability.
We stepped in a trap,
finding ourselves feeling
that fall, that cessation
where we wanted to go,
where we wanted to turn back.
Moving feet went slow
on an uncurving path.
Modern Romanticism 