Leaders walk,
stealing fever
from broad suns
painting a horizon
with their delicate lash.
Some foreign kiss,
a graceful reminder
that all light runs low
through hollow veins,
setting with stains.
I can come tracing
her marks, without gracing
royal sway on her tongue.
She speaks, without moving
her lips over me,
her eyes searching for answers,
her soul drunk upon hues
in a monarch’s blues.
Crashing day
in those mountains that stray
their shadows for other
distant decay.
Empires fall as waterfalls,
promises are kept as rings
in ancient trees
cut to their roots.
To life, in faintest gleam.
To death, in what it leaves
as traces falling between spaces
where voids were left
upon blackest earth.
She comes, surrounding sunlight,
amorous after a dreaming night.
She bares her eyes, frozen into white,
holding connection back,
out of empty fright.
Modern Romanticism 