Returning to those dangers. Returning
with those letters, written without promise,
written with ink of a depleted heart,
one that remains black,
like thunderclouds, like raven shrouds,
like desertions in the desert skies
where wind has no direction.
Bring back your stare,
let me confine myself to the velvet
in your blue, discolored eyes
going from an ocean
into a paranoid monochrome.
Returning to those symptoms
from a sickened, still-reborn heart
awaiting its sentence to a reignited Hell.
Returning to vast sadness
for the dead, among the red
of worshipped madness.
For running eyes, with walking legs
pacing towards a cliff where a waterfall
meets a dried lake,
to dig to find former, crippled footsteps,
to find what keeps us returning
beneath those storms,
inside our yearning.
Modern Romanticism 