I’ll stay here
to cross paths, to merge shadows,
comfortable in what we carved
on sidewalks, heavy with
a rush, from fallen rain,
soaked in our stories,
painted with feet
dancing to unending trails.
Though, I weep, wanting
what keeps these shoulders
buried down. And are you
hearing those footfalls
on pavement, lost and crippled?
I pull loose these tears
like bullets from dead flesh,
and are you still hoping
that silver has killed me,
an unholy monster?
Turning to find,
to remind all blankness
in this sterile mind,
that in those corners
I still abide by what remains,
even if all that stays
is hollowness and tearstains,
even if what has subsided
is sunlight, into a dense shadow.
Modern Romanticism 