Puddles. Adjacent, skinless,
though memorable. I felt a droplet
clinging to a broken neck.
I carved silence into these shadows,
surrounding me on a dirt pathway.
I wanted someone to scream with me,
hoping with me that nothing is left
besides these muddied reflections.
In all, being lost, among desert sands,
I can still weep that ocean that left
names, traced in eternal puddles,
in nightmares or dreams
blurred into a wearied memory.
On those roads where I search and sift,
within infinite tunnels where I cannot lift
shadows that engulf horizons of time
idle on motionless stilts,
crippled without wheels,
I forever grieve for everything left,
among everything else that decided to leave.
Puddles. Distant, saturated,
and unforgivable. Sometimes, I wish for rain
to smear all vividness, keeping the ruin.
More days to send away
to furthest scenes that cannot stay.
More eyes and faces to hear them say
that nothing is forever,
that autumn is the color under the green,
keeping hope a mirage of gray.
Modern Romanticism 