Carrying this. What is it,
but a gesture I have made, before?
I have left you a trail,
sent over a lightless shoulder,
like a tumbleweed,
carried by heated winds.
As you cling
onto a rock, onto
something that keeps you
always guessing.
It rewrites you,
over again, as remakes
of your broken soul.
It rapes you. Rewiring you,
in tethered reconnection,
in sinful resurrection.
Attached. Like a leech,
though I pull you, only by
your bare neck, accompanying you
in such scarlet pain, while barely
crying in this effort,
as I see you, looking back
to that fog.
Back, to all that
has splintered you, at your
wooden frame, as your
canvas bleeds, at your feet,
in all solid colors.
Whose face are you making?
What side are you taking
when clouds will get darker,
when your fascination
will only grow stronger?
Modern Romanticism 