If I had seen what you collected,
like dust in a starlit soul,
I might have diluted what rage I find
to subsist me, to resist you.
I might have clung to more than curtains,
to see lakes that shine that moon
above where our hearts release gloom.
I might have seen those shapes,
those puddles, holding your tears
unwilling to let go.
If I stopped holding onto shadows,
if I withdrew from where pain gets left,
I might have seen your eyes
leaving me trails.
Your skin fades like smoke
to blind me back into wrath.
Your heart has become a razor
to draw red blood that tempers me
to realize what I’ve lost.
An anger that strikes fires
not for warmth, but for cold.
For those branches of burning forests
can embrace nothing,
when their children are ablaze,
when their seeds will share
this futile craze.
If I had seen those shapes that float
as leaves in a teeming ocean,
I might have rewritten those vows
in a different tone, with another stone
that doesn’t sink, forever.
Modern Romanticism 