Tag along
your wind, to
breathe out thunderclouds,
from your lungs.
You faltered,
in your cremation,
willing to burn as a match,
as smoke never followed.
From fuse to shadow,
a long trail extends you
to be that shape
at a distance.
Can you see yourself
forgetting yourself,
within a mirror that
reflects a history
repeating in
muted heartbeats?
I am willing to go on
against a driving current,
while hollow tongues
are speaking
words, translated backwards.
No one else listens,
no one more cries
to each crystallized teardrop
that never truly falls.
Blank clouds, white pages,
faded shelter where
you close covers upon yourself,
shivering in blankets of promises
never filled, never fulfilled.
Modern Romanticism 