Carved stones. Eyes, hidden in
history’s puddle, where we
are seeing the same scenery.
Listening beneath, from above
where rain falls from coated clouds,
too cold to snow.
As we are too tired to sleep,
we hold on for as long
as Heaven will weep.
Fortresses made. Tearstains saved
on those white curtains that
hide our forms, within identical dust.
We are sheltered from disaster,
seeing stagnant skies
speaking our brittle names,
drawn in dense sands.
We were not meant to survive
cold wars. Cured by fragile kisses.
Blown over. Dressed in
each other’s flesh, healing ourselves
with a torment called love.
Fallen, under suppression,
as those who get caught beneath
drifting monochrome.
Bound beneath
thin cracks in drying soil.
Holding hope as a vase
for another’s springtime vanity.
Freezing this puddle
for another animal’s eyes,
rediscovering our blindness
kept in disguise.
Modern Romanticism 