Was it always a stillness?
Or a cloaked gentleness? This repeated
exhaust, a motionless stir in a senseless
deprivation from being well,
after asked if I am well.
Listless inside a vacancy
after knowing I have lost my soul,
bleeding here where a canvas used to be
painted in Heaven’s colors,
as I often confuse a cure
with moments I cannot mirror.
I can forget those times
sheltered under cruel waters
that have exited from bloodstained eyes.
I can forgive some commitment
that brought me over
to possess a heart, strangled
in its own limited tangles.
Raven shadows, peaceful mourning
in this landscape of sorrow.
A harp, upon an evening’s sunrise,
as I had forgot those hours
when sleep should be.
I stay up to count an infinite array
of possible, impossible stars.
I differ the hopeful from the far,
tearing eyes astray
to burn my signature above a scar
buried in an arm that will fold
around a careless discomfort,
since when the moon turns its bloodiest,
I can reunite with the loveliest
pair of rotten lips.
Modern Romanticism 