She swayed. Straying
far from bleeding grounds
where hearts lay wasted.
She spoke of moons, she wrote
those words on starved sand.
She blessed a nameless rose
that grew like a sunrise,
only to sink like a sunset.
What matters to our eyes
when all that has been filled
are these oceans? What can keep
living on, among exhaled clouds,
besides what keeps pouring?
Those sounds. Those beating
hearts. Reverberations that echo
inside spaces no one and nothing
can find a method to let go.
What has been caught within
dark nights, where all of her beauty
has been erased into space?
Everything had been. Nothing has
made itself stain itself, like this,
like what keeps driving that kiss.
Modern Romanticism 