Chosen words.
Worshipped promises.
Don’t let
your streaming face
go astray,
letting empty letters
pile higher. As your heart
carries you on, in debris,
fold those pages.
Don’t fold yourself.
Remember each
feint, each tragedy
born upon wicked palms.
I was nothing more,
than what could not
be brought through.
You stand
at Heaven’s doorway.
You’ve knelt,
praying at frosted windows.
Remember this, if only
to realize
an increment of knowledge
that cannot retreat
back into the unknown.
You know
what title you deserve.
You’ve grieved,
undressing your eyes
in disbelief.
Remember what
cannot be redone,
should not
ever have been won.
Modern Romanticism 