Rush. Touch.
With faint eyes,
limp arms, nothing is ever
halfway to being over.
We have fallen
next to each other,
looking at our clouds,
dark, but never raining.
Barren stage. We are here,
counting seconds, before
another beginning,
another act to begin playing
our scores, our shallow insights
into a betterment,
other than simple blights.
Will we find something
beyond the clouds,
beyond haze? A curtain is often
a third one, after a second chance
will leave us finally hanging.
Drifting. Sifting
for something else,
left within the tearstains,
and the fog
upon and around our scripts.
A leading moment.
To twin roles clashing
against each other,
and always trashing the other
with dismissive criticism.
We wrote reviews
for our bleeding bodies,
our numb hearts.
To more despairing glimpses
of wasted time, departing seconds
that never matter,
while that third curtain
becomes a third arm
to reach for no one’s hand.
Modern Romanticism 