I often contemplate character among eyes
that entertain their perceptions, from syllables
of a handheld other, whose heart treats
an autumn session of falling color
like those repeats of heartbeats, wide in
their years, leaving promises on hands
in shapes of sadness, tears,
a knowledge of being more encompassing
than all barren shadows, beneath leaves,
this surrounding scene still tragic,
yet hollow.
These contemplations of viewing love
where it repeats heartbeats, like messages
written in tears that do not quit their flow.
Like in words that are regrown
in instilled vows, in a man’s strength
to keep love a sunrise within clouds,
or a woman whose garments leave a trail
of either plain sorrow,
or torn secrecy.
Connecting words at an open book,
a parted pair of rubied lips,
a pair of long arms, parted for fervency.
Exotic words, decisive ones,
feverish in warmth of knowing nothing
in that bliss of stagnating everything.
Time crawls, like an infant
whose words are new.
In love, silence bends everything
where language releases as much in eyes,
as in those connecting mouths.
Modern Romanticism 