Upwards into
crimson timelines,
blanketing all moments
in a space, a crude, delicate
surface of white,
of flesh that mimics death,
surrounding eyes
that close for blooming skies.
Tresses, laid against
a pair of lips. She sighs
to pages being flipped,
while inside her smile
are those bared glimpses
of one more solid anchor,
one more stain of heaviness
contained inside pebbles,
black as shrunken,
ingenuine hearts.
One more lie, travelling as
uncontrolled flame, within her
hands, buried in her
teeming sounds. To lifted lips,
over to shoulders where lies
all strands of deception,
countless enough to transfer
her whimpering into sleep.
Enough, to tell a tale
with boldness for its sale –
of a heart that shows its limits,
though a thousand more chimes
will attract its same number
of repeated crimes.
Modern Romanticism 