Such attempts to cover your thin form,
frail from dust that settles often
over eyes that have seen snow be debris
from clouded nights when pain was free,
but you were not pain-free.
You listened to these shelled words,
captured to an eternal sea,
felt at your heart where love was met
near candles, counted, where I first wept
with a smile no eyes had seen,
while I wrote a brittle, burning confession
meant to be drowned within you,
my devoted resurrection.
Not another signal from Heaven to bury you,
for memories are another space
that I cannot forget, without your hands
reaching up to ceilings or to skies
where only I am looking down
at your fields where words were sown,
later to be reaped after pain has flown
its last flight over eternity’s sight.
I trace you within dust,
recall our burdens, among rust.
A template to outline these scars
countless with stars
that gleam over famous wars
when we were inches inside arms,
before we departed,
opposite from bars, with different
definitions of freedom.
Modern Romanticism 