Fatal. Under that waterfall,
eyes have fallen. Teardrops have kept
pressured all that once crept
up to knees, to plead, to grieve
in an act to receive
closure at gated release.
One more word. One word
unspoken, among those countless
that were heard. Hearing all
that fell from poisoned lips,
with all that burned free
from once-frozen eyes.
Chained to day
where sleep exists outside
of those places where decay
has least poignance.
One more word you’ll lay
on a rose that lifted
from thorns, to these gray
skies, of your tomorrow.
I am here, receiving another
cemented desertion, extracted
from a discarded heart,
from oceans you had to part
to come here,
drenched in your sorrows,
with torn pages, sticking
to bare, broken skin.
Modern Romanticism 