Regression. Repression,
with waters, leaving an ocean uncovered
from eyes that left trails,
painted blank
from liquids we drank.
Another scene smothered,
another face covered
with dust, for another, remembered.
Withdrawn. Redrawn
of a portrait captured in mind,
a haunting of a similar kind.
Another smile, vanishing close,
another coffin nailed
through hands that dropped,
in knowing what stopped –
another heart, buried in curtains,
that soil, stiff and stagnant.
Come back. Give back
all that has faded into black.
Can I keep surviving?
Or will I keep crying
in holding hope, like a burning cross,
repeating these rivers
among spaces to shiver?
Modern Romanticism 