Sharp eyes,
fortified, amplified,
noticing her world
bare, on a one-way road
that comes, goes,
repeats in a world of anguish,
scarring tissue, leaving
her as forgotten, with handheld
moments, that are
emptier than when we are
noticing those leaves
she lets fall from
blossomed cheeks.
What do we comprehend,
when those letters of hers
are crumpled, with her heart?
Drenched, torn open
in those vulnerable cues
where skies go from dark
into repetitious hues,
days that are synchronous.
Burning, fading into
something never brand new.
I see where she moves,
lost, above snow.
Tracks are made,
while no one follows
while she goes gray
during every other day.
Pull her astray,
where an assembly of herself
can become something born
out of those footsteps,
not ceasing to a crawl.
Will anyone
walk her aside,
where she tends to gardens
that she ignores?
Her light, her fading days
are those crystal hours
to see a reflection that
needs no repeated mention.
Modern Romanticism 