Another trail
to least follow,
while letters fail to sail
in their mute blankness,
as hands hold air,
burying a seed
to come up, with the mark
of a recollected eternity
deep, in this fairytale.
Drowning. Once, downing
pills, from your bottomless kiss,
bottled into a smile,
remembered at a mirror
that leaves smoke, in your favor,
while I keep crawling up to it,
hoping for another space
to sift, to drift
closer for everything more,
and nothing less.
Choosing to burn.
Cremated, before death,
wrapped in brambles
of your rotten arms,
while wanting no one to find me
losing petals, at that seed
that came up, at the white
spread, of soft snow,
of what will melt
before I see the senselessness
in every instance,
having knelt.
Modern Romanticism 