Enter a trail. Repeat the wounds.
Let us hunger over another entre,
and leave us jeopardized.
Another state to heal us,
too late. Another reflection
to find closed wounds, reopening
like book covers, as our eyes
are the memories inside the pages
to go blank, reintroducing
ourselves to colored wounds,
after a period of denying the ending,
when a period was never there.
Leave the earth open, of quakes,
of heartbreak that shatters
what little we do memorize
in a mirror, while we are blinded
by reappearing curtains.
Closing our eyes. Opening our hearts,
fading in loose arms,
as all these wounds tell us
to whisper when we want to scream.
A mirror filled with smoke,
our eyes losing tears, as our hearts
loose the blood we’ve used for ink
to reveal our names among soil,
while nothing rises,
except for beautiful disguises.
Modern Romanticism 