Walk your hurdles over
to surrender yourself to
the chase. Every inch
that leaves you more amused,
you’ll find what awaits you
in a place that does not
define your space. You have
only succeeded in
reusing old playgrounds.
Step on flowers
if it makes you excited,
if it drives your thrill
past the moon
we both aimed for.
Scorn the sun
that ignites your flesh,
reveals your wounds,
blames you under limelight,
fades you in those nights
everyone finds time
to cry towards a sky
that became its most blue.
Are you sleeping
behind those curtains?
Behind those eyelids
that block all that indicates you,
a flower lingers, stapled
to your finger,
the one that points
in a direction towards winter.
For you cannot
please that directionless heart.
You cannot ever see
your scars, covered in snow,
concealed in empty pages
that will not go
the way this story goes.
Modern Romanticism 