Confess, for a second.
Undress, into remembrance,
as shadows are those
flakes of dust to brush off.
Painting you
for ceilings,
as letters were written
for sunsets, for answers that
broke at their destination,
at a pair of lips
gone silent.
Deaths, at a quieted heart,
where floods go onward
from eyes that were
always looking backwards.
Someone once said,
skies were meant to be blue,
while that sun stays high.
I want to believe in what
always remains green.
I want, while others dispose
of lives, deemed as empty.
Who are hearts, meant to cross for,
on those unstable bridges,
collapsing under weight
of everything underneath,
carried in arms?
Centered, in those stars
never unified?
I connect what rushes on
with drifts, with hands that move
with ashes, within petals to sift.
A blank arrangement of this world,
walking naked, near to no one
other than a pair of idle clouds.
Modern Romanticism 