To those stirrings looking across from
a space between your vacant eyes,
I see what you have done, as I
compare where you have come from,
with losing sides becoming unified,
before the entire arrangement
is realized as a glance’s entry
from two stories never closed,
while you try to go, following from
where Heaven never knows.
I burn your bandages, trace your scars
like ink to a fallen petal,
though you’ll face away from me
to see another victim
within some distant mirror.
Criss-cross your sadness within those
who were never leaving that space
within that chair, always vacant
like the summer that was never drowned
around where you were crowned.
Modern Romanticism 