Drawn cards,
turned down to
bad luck. Are you
swimming while I
sink, high atop
isolated ships?
With an abandoned heart
that skips another second
to see a shoreline,
to find hope’s outline.
With eyes that rush
with waves to see
what has been drawn
for another time.
A card for luck. Or
bloodstreams that stuck,
never moved, never
moved on, while always you
come back to mind,
in that crude outline.
Hope for one
this hopeless,
seeing sunsets, before
dawn ever arrives.
You were blushes in
a delicate mirror.
Displays of warmth,
fevers from something
I cannot cure.
One red memory
in that lone sunrise,
I keep as this lighthouse,
moving with waves, with
these tears. To see,
to breathe, if for
one more moment to remember
that time I dismembered
a truth to see a crude
outline, where everything stopped,
and went on.
Modern Romanticism 