Forward scenes, backwards displays,
covering backgrounds in pledges,
promises to revisit that sound existence.
Revolving our bleak surroundings
to keep memories in their graves,
as I never thought to
hear where you were crying.
I never gave much of a glance
to other underlying,
undying factors.
Being born this way.
Being strangled in heartstrings,
hearing flags being flown
above sobbing currents,
drawn from someplace
deep, buried in those weeds.
Defiling roots always were
reminding me of nothing sure,
nothing clear to quench me
in water, never pure.
While walking on white pages
where oaths, uncertain graces
kept us falling to injure ourselves
in further brokenness,
future endlessness,
I can keep coming back,
to reopen book covers, unstitching
scars that were closed
on our retreat out open doors.
I can keep regressing us backwards
across lines that we drew
to signify our helplessness,
to symbolize our faultlessness,
repeating this carelessness.
Modern Romanticism 