Nose to skies.
What comes down, first,
to hold your discarded hand?
You have sunk your soul,
feet first into crude terrain,
driving your winds
with music, with rain.
Those who have failed
to gather you, to remember
your face under a sun
that dimmed enough for
storms to come, have never
been haunted at where
you were severed.
Red-circled eyes. A stranded
blossom, left in a burned-
out garden.
Your grief took you towards
emptiest days, looking up
to sunset before sunrise.
Autumn remnants go against
all faint traces to a thinning
smile. In all that I see,
I cannot ever reach.
While all you have known
are parasitic weeds,
I cannot provide your needs
from seeds being sown.
I cannot reach,
when I remain as
another leech.
Modern Romanticism 