Turn your damaged face,
deserted, from all that traced
you, under those clouds
where your weather collected.
If I can bring you
back, from Heaven’s gate,
there will be more to embrace,
if you tell those tears to wait.
One wound that keeps sounding
tunes, from saddest stories.
This grief that keeps spilling
soundless, shelling reverbs,
while curtained under our scars,
hidden beneath where death starts
that familiar memory.
In losing you, I have
gained a different temple,
brought forth another worship,
where puddles glisten, beneath eyes,
beneath skies where we
find each other in mirrors.
I have praised a deep reminder
to what passes, to everything
that has us. We built this road,
that rusted bridge, though all
will smolder under shadows.
Modern Romanticism 