Lantern shadows, to eyes
that melt in these breathing rooms,
while I hold on to the fade
in the form of a silver hand
broken from its strength,
left to quiver among autumn leaves.
I kissed once what felt
like a period of thunder in the gray
aftermath, between night and day.
I told what was evil, “no more”,
feeling my fever become a voice
that echoes a once-concealed memory.
To that which beats on, from radiance
down to cold rows of those
lined up for the encounter of the headless,
for the marriage between guilt and stardom.
To all that holds in its breath,
I kiss that hand, I write a letter
to an expression I once believed in,
one that signaled me into white,
one that destined me into night.
I kiss a pair of ignorant lips,
belonging to a statue of imminent beauty.
A love here lost to the aging moment
when I surround her in my tears,
my worries, my ancient fears.
Modern Romanticism 