Void. Bullet, and a tug
of a teardrop that keeps
the stains, far away.
I find that these reflections
are transparent, too transparent,
too seemly
to a promise too large,
to folded pages, pausing smoke
drifting across fogging mirrors.
Pause what keeps me wandering
of an open mind, too little
in what remains as kind,
for I have crippled a horse
when it carried me,
as I have parted with dim light
that pushed its limits
to see me weep
for coming night.
I fade, while I wade
in deepening waters, flooding
of loosened states,
embittered under white clouds,
reflected in oceans that never stop
shoving me, out closed doors
towards open wounds,
those that never stop
their bleeding miles.
I pause, to rewind
smiles that I must have missed,
listening to a heartbeat
that never sleeps.
Modern Romanticism 