Lost award,
no one could tell you
to keep losing those tears
inside vacancy.
Were these ruins
too cold, far too old,
in that stilled rush?
Your eyes run,
while your feet walk
to a door left over your shoulder,
and you never turn your head
to see who stands still,
and who has stopped breathing in
after you walked out.
Something afforded you
remembrance, drowned under
resurgence. Are you still undergoing?
Are your heartbeats
a lone drive, beneath falling weather?
Center what terminates
me, from your being –
and keep sheltering yourself
outside of believing.
Do not, for a faint moment,
recollect those sounds
when a bridge had been built.
Remember a passing face
that dissolved as quickly
as all firelight returns to twilight.
Modern Romanticism 