To color, dynamic. To skin,
aromatic, in what comforts us,
conceals us in reflection,
divides us, in selection
for whom will remain here
closed behind doors, open within
flooded corridors. We are
bandaged, in each other’s arms,
seeing pain, never tamed
in mirroring eyelids.
Passion bites. Nerves excite
all our muscles to move us
once more, on a final twist
to a connecting kiss.
All our veins, like stretching boughs
reaching out like barren fingers
without rings of promise, hung from
a trunk with rings of age.
To autumn, enigmatic. To death,
symptomatic. We are wired,
together, feeding our same soil
with Heaven’s teardrops.
All I loved, revives itself
as an uprising against all that floats
to my reach, all that extends towards
my parched, silent lips.
For a split will occur
to divide me, once more,
in this engrained, tearstained
place of continuous storms.
A mist will cover,
as a sun will forget,
while what’s left
are endless, discolored leaves
as a trail, for a time
of terminal grief.
Modern Romanticism 