A grave.
A pair of tunneling eyes
turning sideways
to lift something, adjacent
to whomever sheds color,
always. Like a leaf,
drifting, wandering –
with every thought finding fault
in those stable ways,
those fabled days.
Like all those journeys
of those faces, buried in hearts,
light had left those who were plenty
in their surrender, going empty.
How can you ever rope in
something that was never given in,
for those hollowed-out oaks,
for those traced contours,
bending without shape,
wired out of place?
In what moments, are we simple,
leaving carelessness as the only thing
we hold in our arms,
forever to go on, with our legs,
forever to move on?
An ocean saved,
two pairs of tunneling eyes
this time, sailing on deserted deserts
where no mirrors lurk. Nothing
can surrender us in this rush
to kneel ourselves, into shape,
a position in place.
Modern Romanticism 