Watching those places – desert themselves,
while watching these spaces
find themselves lasting us, between fogged eyes,
holding onto open sceneries and skies,
hearing what little we make of everything
become, again.
One more yearnful caress
beyond a noose, far from all that
fades among that hourglass,
because in our vision, we might last
if we are rebirthed from mirrors,
not smoke of ruins.
We can keep removing,
or we can keep renewing
these moments that overcome shadows
with their salience, their light
that burns brightest at an open window
of fossilized mornings.
Believing in what watches us
from up close. Those faithful eyes,
though they have no recollection
of what places where we gave
our graces for everything saved.
Defying those dark glimpses
of life that remains eternal, in being
crystallized. Deserted, for we watch that
with a smile that pities
a despair fit for entire cities,
reduced to dust, debris,
a nothingness to do with you
nor me. We are infinite angels,
finding our eyes clash
like colliding comets,
like flesh that reunites,
reignites in fusion.
Modern Romanticism 