I wanted to
rekindle a futility.
I gravitated north
to see my reflection
in muddled waters.
I wanted to know
if auroras
ever vanish.
Puddles.
Lakes.
Perfumes from an ocean.
Waves for departure,
upon broken outlines of loss,
drawn at an endless,
tortured shoreline.
No one needs to know.
I keep bleeding these pleas,
to remake futility.
A hand that got away.
Two feet that dipped low
like a bucket full of stars,
full of tears down into
bottomless paranoia.
Indecision.
Doubting what planet
will inhabit a heart.
Inhibition.
Will I find out if sadness
can be enough to bring growth
to barren land,
if seeded with bloodstained hands?
I will not discover that place
that escapes each eclipsed face.
Fires that highlight moons,
rings that encircle
what cannot be given paths
for life’s first movement.
Modern Romanticism 