Hollowed eyes, thin paper hearts.
And what were you waiting for,
under all that rubble
brought free from your mind?
A lonesome answer,
given, and then brought down to dust,
while you cling to tragedies, maladies,
a malignant purpose,
a white-water dream
in this clogged void, where all
have called you,
while you left.
Screams still come, come from
your nakedness in these coldest
hours of you standing there,
collecting excuses,
as if you are being mourned
where you are torn.
You still want
what no one else gives,
what no one else hands out
to graft gold – to refill that hold
for another hour
for one more year,
leaving tears upon your throat,
bruised from those you fled,
tying yourself to oceans.
Modern Romanticism 