Down these stretches.
Stretched upon your marks
of infantile desertion, watered
in your birth of other,
newer abandonment – one that
leaves you open for another,
another dagger to fuel
letters scrawled into desire,
your pain in a rancid heart.
Desert – water those flowers,
pink, scented
and powerless. You are scarred,
watermarked and left tragic
in your leaking wound.
An inborn, sacred malady
you must keep secure.
What has been birthed, this time,
if it isn’t cradled in your mouth?
To words, to promises
expressed in all languages,
though each are muted
to your salience,
but will anything matter?
Whose life are you emptying?
A perfume is all you know
between legs, between pillars
holding up your unstable mind.
Bleed out, bend over
in your carelessness.
Let go, drift within that undertow
in keeping your sickness prolonged.
Modern Romanticism 