Splashing in our hearts,
ceasing displays of faded
reflections. Who were they?
Upon that mass of damages,
who were those figures
pointing fingers down a road,
one we ignored?
I come through,
down a bleak hallway.
I pass photographs,
hung at metal necks,
cold throats that received
warm kisses
with warmer breaths.
Our misguided lives
became watered-down
remembrances,
descending us into puddles,
to sift through dark entrances
to hear heartbeats
in rapidity.
Tension comes back
to mention us, to survey
our surroundings, shadowed
in their stir. One more
teardrop, upon that shore,
one more lost grace
to set evenness to that space
we decorated our cheeks
in pebbles,
while we continue –
ongoing in bruising our hands
on everything brought back.
Modern Romanticism 