If smoke could clear.
Of what has been written
on these rain-tattered pages,
under storms – can come undone,
can be vows, soon withdrawn;
I cannot silence what will come
within some aftermath,
not hazed inside painful fog.
Within these ruins
pulled up to chins,
quivering to cold droplets
from unmerciful storms,
we caress, if only
to deplete all we ignored,
like our hearts of its blood –
here, there, reopening its flood,
and drowning us in blindness,
either of love or of
tearful kindness.
Those weren’t the right words
woven into that tapestry
of no one’s truth.
These won’t be the correct ones,
labelled in their undeserved freedom,
tossed loose into empty air.
What else to discover,
lost in this web of each other’s mind,
for like spiders,
we strive to prey
on entanglements, where we
devour all we aimed to keep?
Like deceivers, we are never
carefree enough to stay
as believers. Learning to pray
will mean for us to stop consuming.
It will mean for us
to stop reusing.
Modern Romanticism 