Screams between scars.
Memories between those rocks
she holds, when her cold
skin wishes to burn twice,
when her eyes hold everything
tight in those clamped
pathways. To her soul,
towards a destination, old,
towards a place that remains
spaced on glimpses
to landscapes, cold.
I repeat that she holds
her life above a grave,
screaming to clouds, wishing
for tears to soar down
to soak her hands
that she might be saved.
Another symptom to weep for,
one more image to send for
to paste onto another copied
second, while she retreats
back to a homeward defeat.
Longing carries over.
Soil presents her with cover,
shelter from sunlight.
For what rains
will always be what
stays here to stain.
An attitude to submit
to hungering solitude.
Lesser to be well-known,
more to be overgrown
with those memories, these
shadows that glimpse at
each seed she’s ever sown.
Modern Romanticism 