Once more, consequential
to ignore that shared shadow.
A glimpse, a raw occurrence
of what we sought –
being wrapped around
our evenings, dilated in eyes,
running loose,
with soiled bandages,
fading with wounds,
too new.
We look for
hidden chances,
believing in being
carefully selected,
under heavy enterprise,
with prices for love,
with elements of disaster.
We drop, low
in worth, in reminder
of what we keep forgetting.
Another tug at that
same, discolored string,
wrapping our wounds
in painless unity,
covering our faces,
in disfigured disguises.
A high, for deception
into sighs, without being
smothered, into wilted roses.
Brought close, upon
our unhealed brokenness,
as our losses
are always a weight,
one that we cannot toss
far from our eyes.
Modern Romanticism 