I hear more words
pleading from your eyes,
than your open mouth.
I find what squeezes
water, from a rusted heart.
I handoff your sight,
letting light take its course –
letting relief find its comeback,
though nothing holds,
while hands fall down
like dust from a rotten coat.
Cold, floating among grains,
wandering like enslaved clouds,
a heaviness at each foot,
while cures retreat for doors
closing at newer departures,
before you could turn
to hear your heart being shut.
I hear your limbs,
crawling from your mothers.
A child for a phantom’s arms,
emptying your eyes
for another puddle,
seeing your reflection, lost,
in everything your heart
had cost,
damaged upon a bloodied cross,
while downpours and earthquakes
are those signals
to, once more, withdraw yourself
under bedsheets and skies.
Modern Romanticism 