Compelled to be silent. Thrashing
only on the inside, where you’ve shelved
truths, that you believe. You believe,
though you can barely breathe,
holding close those curtains,
surrounding yourself
in the rush of another’s air.
Expel yourself, for me, for you.
Repel me, if that’s what you do,
for a living – to live, while I walk back,
mercifully loving you from a distance,
and watching a city burn down.
Whose turn is it
to turn a golden key?
You’re desperate, in desire,
your prayers, bringing you higher,
though never out of complete reach
from me, the one who
knows from which direction
it snows.
At your feet, with more shivering
than your grasping fingers.
Hold upon clouds, grasp your shroud,
this curtain hanging close,
as you sink your tears, like rain
that leaves marks, like your pain.
What will you say
when it comes to
your infertile dismay?
One more time
to hear you, crumbling from afar,
and let you fall into that open scar.
Modern Romanticism 