The area around
to a chosen world, your home,
visited on this occasion
when your veins carry you out,
leaving your memories
buried in bitterness and red.
Ever-changing
to digress, disassociated
from fertile, uprising dread.
You poke loose,
budding anew,
as light has enabled you
to look up towards vacant skies.
Are you blind to certain planets,
those spheres from your yesteryear?
A salience conjured out of tears,
a lost pair of feet
journeying for deceit.
Look back
to see a black ocean
you have ignored,
while fighting back
all those building thoughts,
like cities crafted as ruins,
patterned with dust.
Look out towards
those sceneries that twist,
like entanglements in your hair,
like scars at every inch
of your trembling fingers,
since those miles
have kept you cloaked,
kept you tossing out truth
like water, to infinite streets,
like your tears
in your vain beliefs.
Modern Romanticism 