Those wraparounds,
bold curves. Wide in swerves,
undressing in shadows,
dressing in lace.
Broken hands come around,
embracing poison of sweat,
water of lily pads.
Between you, to be
within you, I hold all of
your declining droplets,
meant for my mouth
scarred from absence,
meant as a substance
to feel like real presence.
I bring you down to softness
from those rocks, clogged
in your eyes. I help you to swallow
this dust, this sickness,
those clouds that showered you
in rain that comes
from high above,
not deep down.
I let you swell, I aim to quell
all those profusive moments
you were directionless.
Rope answers from my eyes.
Let me cripple your disguise,
digging you above ground,
beneath Heaven’s lies,
to be merged in all sounds
when seasons merge inside.
Modern Romanticism 