You are, what regrows
safely – congested, in running ivory
from burning eyes,
those that only once
burned away
any shred of you.
Whenever, you
regrow, from thorns,
from bitterness,
in stale perfume –
to clinging memories,
keep on, move on,
while nothing stops
this heart,
from attacking itself.
Live on, go on
to subside yourself
among desolate substitution.
I’ll repeat, here,
what lingers inside buried cold.
You are a form, awash,
for a formless mass of flesh,
this old.
I am careless.
Surrounding myself
in dusty debris,
reusing sights,
of your face, amidst skies,
leaving light for me,
embracing shadows for you,
while tending to particles of snow
deep below,
in the undertow.
Modern Romanticism 