Drowned beneath familiar
coverage, clouding these
undermining ambitions, while you
have seen me clogging a heart
in distance. I leave this
decayed rose, at your feet,
while I bleed
for a futile eternity.
Whose time, this time,
is it, to turn over a leaf?
I move, I climb
to see another shape,
hear another sound,
to caretake another settlement
of blossoms,
as you might choose otherwise,
among shadows that never cease
their twists.
Leave your light, behind,
to let me become that which
guides you, at standing graves.
Sating your endless hunger
at lips that never wither,
as long as I remain
to upkeep existence,
of eternal stains.
At tresses, that find no direction,
in churning winds. At eyes, ones that
see this soul, deep in its
paranoia, of locked-on selection,
leaving a shower of teardrops
for your plain garden.
If I am considered, in truth,
I won’t be that which
replaces you, your fever
far from consternation,
into simple alteration.
Modern Romanticism 