Let me loose. Whatever spills
should be as dark as this chosen midnight,
over a page as white as emptied clouds,
turning fair, equal,
at daylight’s stream.
I run, though I have walked.
I have attempted to talk
without words passing through
those ears that never absorbed
meaning for what remained
to trail, behind them
like chains,
like stains along that path,
paved with blinded, black ice.
Invisible ink, no more
for these drafts, connected in white
stars, among this chosen midnight.
Whomever will hear,
let them be near
to consume words of letting go,
of darkest ink upon flakes of snow.
Hands must illustrate
a heart pierced, though not pieced
together, in misbelieved union.
Eyes must know
all there has been to show.
Remembrance to those trying times –
with weights in heaviest silver –
as states, at which
I can recreate everything better.
Modern Romanticism 