Stilled, under
one of her stars.
This one, by instinct,
I follow, buried beneath
a puddle of gloom,
blanketed in this transparency
that everything had kept
its secret certainty.
I’ll force, to forge
a way forward, though not
while mirrors are decorating
these hallways. A mind –
a ceiling that connects
all things left behind,
connected at pebbles,
dissolved into stars.
One more, another breath
to keep me going
against her beating heart,
that brief thumping
inside entrapped portraits,
frames like hands,
canvases like histories
being filtered.
Going astray
to her stare, looking back
only at a second in time
when our lips were stuck,
when our outpoured words
wilted with promises,
no longer watered in gardens
growing black with night.
Modern Romanticism 