After we felt enough
to clog our eyes, to cover
our skies with
our shielding palms –
we pull over these sheets.
Closing a chapter,
believing in nothing more,
like birds of clipped wings.
Like children without bread,
to soon become another
for numerous dead.
Like those helpless without answers,
praying to a vast canvas,
to watch God paint colors
drenched like gleaming sickness
at their nailed feet.
A kiss had fallen apart
in our hands. Like petals,
or rubies that are never
deemed a preciousness.
I’ll wilt, before
you have a chance
to raise yourself.
Would you mind that?
After our hearts touched down
like seeds from burning trees,
we sighed, if only
to spread former debris
from other stains upon ivory –
other distortions
within melodies.
Modern Romanticism 