Bring close those curtains
spattered with your ink,
blotched with your soul, among all
that flooded you out from your eyes,
leaving passages
deserted in gray.
Storms are your everything –
even when given messages of comfort,
a tempest remains that blackness
connecting you back to nothingness.
An emptiness swells
as an ocean surrenders,
beneath these dimmed evenings,
as you crawl, like all your kin
open to your breast of despondency.
I wonder at where you left
my words, those vows
while you chose to shelter yourself
under barren dread,
lost to a command of red
sunsets that never end.
I wonder at what you have left
to weep for, while disguises are being
peeled apart, like layers
of flesh, scraped from your skeleton;
for what more
is there, to weep for,
while you fight to breathe
drowning in hunger and disbelief?
Modern Romanticism 