Surrounded in haze, buried in clay
figurines, for they hold you close
in earthen shelter. Are you in Heaven,
where eyes are lookouts, lighthouses
in all looming stars?
Frozen body. Worn temperament,
another hour, another chance
to close that emptying draft –
your breath under a blue moon,
one that becomes red
during days when you are dead.
A loving heart for all
who you welcome, inside
arms that close like pages
in a decaying book,
histories that look alike,
with memories concealed far
from where this world
has identified your scars.
I come bearing gifts of rain,
nestling myself between you
and these surrounding storms.
Among all falsehoods,
you were a rose who grew
among brittle seasons
of repeated colors in autumn,
as thunder spoke your voice,
framing you in its canvas,
its scene of lifted senses.
Modern Romanticism 