Once I saw what gleamed, until
I only saw what dreamed. One dark
realization, never before rubbed,
smeared, left under curtains;
there, as a disguise to the daylight
with the misery.
He wanted his chains broken,
his mask torn off,
left with the bandages, his skin,
the nakedness of honesty.
He dreamed under a glaze,
a stir from a heavy heart.
He hoped during the craze
of those jealous of death:
to death’s imminent embrace
of a man with no more
life to taste.
His tongue, a hornet’s nest,
his puddling tears – honey.
Fields this dark and lurking
are finding him wanting.
An empty trail, going backwards
goes nowhere,
not to a mother’s arms,
not to that man’s kin
who weep when he sleeps.
Only when hope draws itself
into winter’s sudden warmth,
can honesty be that next degree
outside of that endless sea.
Modern Romanticism 