Make your stand
high above the delicate rush,
the evening push
to be carved in sands,
painted, stroked
in asymmetrical disaster.
Waves came in, faster,
drawing your head to a sea,
to see what could not
be believed.
You’ll crush what remains
as always itself, ample.
It eluded arms, that swing
their embrace, around
empty air.
At first, hearing a cry
in a shell, outside your own.
At last, you’ve realized
you’ve crawled out,
on your own,
nevertheless. Go, to find nothing
as alike, as what we had left
in our flooded ruins –
the warmest shelter,
floating on clouds, like feathers.
Throughout lightness, in light of what
we used to be, down to where
you came, to believe
was only another place
to play make-believe.
For, in love, we kissed illusions,
with mirrors all around.
In truth, to blame us
will be to name us
as only another one of us,
another one of those
who made it,
who did not make it?
We carried our hearts, forward,
like arrows from their quivers.
If one was golden,
while all others were black,
there were those hidden silvers
that were tears, from a moon
raining its grief
upon our shelter, full of holes,
full of everything we stole.
Modern Romanticism 