Fallen place, darkened space
inside those harrowing sounds,
echoing from brushstrokes
in memories, where you collected
discarded fragments,
from burned photographs.
Were you crying
when this world had been
cheering for a smile,
a face you had brought upon
vacant shoulders?
I am bending to your will,
to see you, to want you
to come up,
like a sunrise, that only
bowed, for an audience,
one that left its tears
inside departing hands –
such hands that left for doors,
open, not closed,
without your heart to go on,
for another heartfelt song.
Somewhere, among middling
lines, you had been kept,
hearing sounds that are echoed
inside a mind that holds on
to hands, to strands
of someone’s dead hair,
to breaths, beneath someone’s
dead stare. Echoes, from
drifting currents, in your care,
placed in a locked chest,
placed in a place
no feet will ever step.
Modern Romanticism 