Laid. Strewn. Settled, like all that
filters her voice. Muted, though not
without an uttering, sputtering song
that ripples along
with her ancient deformity.
A pain that keeps bringing her in,
bringing me back – back when
all those tears came out, from inside,
like a child wanting to play.
Like a child with a scraped knee,
that injury had been
a man as me, submitting to her world,
her face reflected in an hourglass.
I bent a knee. Lent her a few words,
blew a subtle kiss in her dark direction,
and revealed her sadness omniscient.
What she knew, she proudly grew
under me, within me,
letting thorns breathe – for inside this,
I am a cave for growth of moss,
while to become rock,
a heart had its cost.
Being without, without desire
for freedom to come about,
while flesh gets tossed about,
among her desertions, from those
who cultivated her putrid form.
Who lets us in? A door; what key
cannot be lost with those hearts
that repeat endings
as nothing ever does start?
Modern Romanticism 