Whose loss, with whose vision
finds us, dark, in our surroundings?
We are losing stones,
in letting them fall into rivers.
Our reflections do not matter,
for our arms never carried much
when spilling solid tears,
into everything
that continues to flow,
sideways, always sideways,
on identical pathways.
On separate highways,
we have lost, with tunneling vision,
seeing across, and losing space
in every direction.
Wandering towards sunsets,
concerned only with our scars,
as other lights will dim
in some frozen town.
We’ll fear for more
than what must be thrown
into streams, rivers,
oceans that bring all memories
closer, than when they were
collected, inside broken dams,
once called an embrace.
We’ll believe that kisses
will disconnect, though always
find ways to reconnect
under gray clouds,
as bitterness was left
on lips, tasting discolored petals.
To eyes, witnessing
monochrome letters,
that were swept.
Swept, far from hands
that had gathered them,
for shadowy corners.
Modern Romanticism 