Who made it so
clouds were shaped to be
curtains, covering us
with showers of repression?
We are painted black
with ink, of our grief,
writing letters to a smothered Heaven,
weeping for something beneath,
caught between our feet,
given desire between our knees.
A display
of completeness, of hollowness,
for what is left
in this drift? Here are used up
expressions, from faces,
of those that were
meant to stay.
While we were
coming back, to speak
of honesty,
of deliberation, there were
still, those breaths, these winds
we chose instead to offer
a disused, misused
contemptible attention,
facing our eyes downstream
to hear our heartbeats.
Beneath rapids, within the undertow,
currents have removed our breaths,
like children, separated
from their lungs.
With a repeated reflection
shattered, in mirrors,
life being separate from those clouds,
we find ways to gather, again,
rebuilding another shroud
to keep us blaming fog,
to keep us blaming mirrors.
Modern Romanticism 