Standing before, the cover,
the shielding casket lid
of a story’s disappointment,
an ending – a concealment,
and still, I await
what comes next.
Eyes forward,
towards a funeral,
with song, rose, and failure
caretaking what steps
were taken
to recognize familiarity,
without similarity.
A brittle unearthing
of senselessness. I carried the stars,
the infinity of each droplet
to let you, come loose
into solid arms.
You found yourself,
dancing higher,
when those bleak,
vibrant rushes of emptiness,
entangled you
in familiarity.
I pulled open doors
for your feet, to enter through.
I drew you to
see sunlight,
when you were
deep in your fading frame,
letting floods take over.
Were you hearing thunder,
before it struck,
before we were lovestruck,
because you predicted
the exit? Before, the entrance
to a heart, emptied for you?
Emptied, without storms,
with nothing but clarity’s blue?
You brought yourself into black,
to keep familiarity intact.
Modern Romanticism 