Were you always aware
of what was meant to be evaded?
Avoided, like another kiss
landing on your vacant arms –
while I cannot imagine that you
are dearest in your emptiness.
Whose puddles can you face
when either your tears or mine
are collected, in circles being traced?
Rings of age, under eyes
red-rimmed in discolored years
washing aside all those brittle fears,
if for a moment,
and is anyone happy?
Your heart, always echoing
a concealed, though fitful
laughter. Moroseness of your remorse
appears like a snake gone mad,
a lie like a warmth on its tongue,
as you are reminded of what you strangled,
to leave behind.
Are you leaving these trails
for me to follow?
One more time to this bow and arrow
letting loose a message to you,
and you, sending back a bullet
I have to dodge to avoid your reluctance,
as I have to beg to keep you staying.
Like a dog that follows,
trails lead me to a cliff
to contemplate.
Modern Romanticism 