Chosen, at that time
to comfort you
under sheets, for what burns
inside wounds, when evening turns
back into morning’s sunrise.
All those drops of dew
yearn to console you,
wearing you down
under mourning’s crown,
leaving you gray
in a barren day.
Another era
to litter bodies,
in these wars, remembered
at those stars, dismembered
before your shell can
come back to stand
your form on a lonesome shore,
while you write your name
in a long, fevered line,
ending for another time
when reused flesh
had been a mere death.
Necrotic kisses
to grant you a vision
of those ships that watch
lighthouses, more than light
can bring you home.
Tearstains, with
weathering grain,
emboldened at a fracture,
a small, surfacing ray
that keeps you here
for another solaced day.
Another night
to see you bright,
before you disappear
in that same destination
you will reappear
with silence to hear.
Modern Romanticism 