To messages sent out, for mailboxes
from hands that tremble under
turbulent clouds, in these thunderous,
embittered moments when we
had been clinging to each other’s throats,
while hovering above each other’s vacancy
in a carved-out spot among earth,
tortured only with roses.
Though I hold your body close,
you are never deep within
while I am hearing your heartbeat
still too faint, still far away,
still too fearful to be molded
inside tearstained clay.
Ink for clouds – those letters we sent
out from our quivering hands,
created from turbulent minds,
sleeping hearts that wake
only during calmer seconds,
while we rush with our pushed waves,
colliding with those other graves
that we never noticed
are other souls never saved.
A stable grace. Dedicated to a time
and a place where life and death go,
like all identical waste.
Modern Romanticism 