Sufferance. Brought up, on
teardrops to write words –
those too cruel to be rewritten,
though are rewound
in the countdown
of a returned life, to the earth,
while crying to be reborn,
without crying in darkness.
Eyelids cannot cover you,
in withdrawn attention
from scars, raised above
your poisoned flesh,
nor can I,
could I, turn myself away
from these woes, raised above
a meaningless breath
in me.
Like sunlight,
a fever, our union
dresses hearts, in floods,
as I’ll blame these tears
to keep receding us
back, into open ocean.
Modern Romanticism 