Colors know
more than we
ever had to show.
Lines drawn across
galaxies we never crossed,
folding our arms,
blanketing our tears
in burns, for fuses
made short like
thin smiles, before
thunder becomes heard
before a heart’s ocean,
where our time to heal
will be that
moment to seal.
Brought down, in dead
moments where our eyes
are outlined in red,
weeping for rain to fall
to raise this garden
kept as soil
where our bodies
were brought.
Nothing caught, no one
taught our hands to extend
to tend to what
needed to mend,
while our knees bend
in submission to these
seconds, when we send
our fates out
with another tear.
Underlined, believing in
memories that are undermined.
Waving farewell to words
we said, while we were consigned
for boldest smiles
waiting in line.
Modern Romanticism 