Love stays presented,
stilled, like a cadaver
rotting under a dim sunlit
evening that won’t ever
completely wilt,
even if you find me fading
from your streaming eyes.
Go blind, in your tears,
fall behind, in your fears.
I’ll be here, saving earth,
burying empty space before you
step inside, with fervent grace,
with an outline to trace.
Even in death, you are a seed,
coming up into open arms,
as without your breaths,
you burn in depictions of summer,
blossoming from all graves,
while healing nothing
under disused time.
I misuse time,
holding onto what it stretched,
for where I’m confined
with shadows growing longer,
with pain getting stronger.
Messages return,
always sent back, into chimes,
sent back through time
to remind a forsaken mind
of what continues to reveal –
be revealed,
but eventually be sealed.
Modern Romanticism 