Pioneer the loss, while you fade
in this dimming heart’s flame,
I shoulder what I’ve always cradled,
keeping you company
in the sickness, in those tearstains –
hanging onto your chin
with a man’s deformed touch,
with remnants of our fire.
Hang by every droplet,
let your hands soak in imagery
settled into puddles, within soil
that have absorbed our reflections,
though have abused
all attempts at resurrection.
I still believe in that rush,
those rivers without end.
I still walk close to those oceans,
hearing what sounds like calls
of your voice, vacant in this weather
that keeps surrounding
these thoughts of infinite rain, caught
together, in the uncovered surrender.
Whenever I arrived home,
crawling between your hands,
I was an infant born into auburn
autumn of more scenery
I could sense was leaving –
to go behind invisible curtains,
before being held in colder palms.
Grief runs from these blinded eyes,
gazing towards sunless skies.
Modern Romanticism 