I can run back
your grief, to those letters,
disowning your
needless trials,
empty as all air
you rush,
from your panting lips
straight into me.
You left, your words
like seeds from a grave,
rebirthing a forest
from shade.
To stretch,
even without roots,
to want for meaning
to take place –
for anything would be better
than coldness, while truth
had remained clogged
in your earth,
your bewildering mind,
your eyes, when they
need petals to be
undressed, like bandages.
Though, the venom remains
to reconfirm you
in words, cursed to hollowness,
exiting either from throat
or the tallest trunk
of any sickened tree.
Modern Romanticism 