Funnel those
teardrops, into this open,
discarded mouth.
I still miss
tastes of a sunrise,
blooming without disguise,
as we caressed
stones on a rough road,
stressing for finality
to release a breath
we held, and could not
ever use to turn
our eyes, behind.
Funnel history’s glances
down insanity’s laughing throat.
Pour down all your bitterness,
as I remember it,
as I only remember it.
I realize
that you are past
a mere sunrise.
A beauty whose eyes
have become that sunrise,
and have never set
into an ocean’s depth.
You’ve found your own breath,
and kept me to death’s
simple embrace.
I will wander over
a skeletal bridge,
shouldering all those tracks
I cannot remove,
nor take back.
Modern Romanticism 