Rebirth. Resound
all those scents risen from
an arrogant ground,
pledging an empire full of surprise,
as roses turn the skies
into a sunset aura.
You cling, you bring
all that color forward, to lay
a common prayer down
on a plainer floor.
Bedsheets spread. Mattress missing.
Claw marks retain more to stain
than chalk marks,
where you are traced.
An aftermath, with one more
droplet of sweat to count,
before you reopen your door,
to see endless streets
you cannot completely leave.
Bend your hopes forward,
and stretch your desperation.
Flood bottomless backgrounds,
from where you drag
your sorrows, your shadows,
like bags that were never opened,
like life that never breathed.
Modern Romanticism 