Someone’s open palm
forgot to pray
for a forgiveness, sudden,
for two souls that are drifting
in a universe that cannot immerse
itself, in that someone’s kindness.
Receding to random stars –
caught in our blindness.
Continue to forget us,
those who are not like us
who need to keep believing
someone will find us standing still.
To find us, like statues
before we become dust,
like a sputter of fewest words
lost between book pages,
among weathered vows –
caught within stages.
You are not like us who keep
reopening to resaid words,
suffering while always recollecting
what we lose at whenever we collect
all reminders of wounds
resurrected, at these symptoms,
selected in a repeat of conceit.
Saves your faces,
buried, within Heaven’s spaces
vast, along passages
immaculate and white.
Do not look upon those who
choose to ignore a bold,
once-told truth.
Beneath thunder, being under
while bleeding from decaying arms,
unharmed, though needing
another tale to keep us guessing
at what ending we’ll believe.
Modern Romanticism 