Who nurtures what
connects, at your breast
that burns at your
uncovered portraits?
Still-life, in those waters,
steering ships
brought towards a lighthouse,
a signal, a thriving flame
of your eternal blame.
I can lay
marble kisses, to your
dying name,
while you’ll relight candles
I’ve extinguished, at your ending
to a pain you’ve gathered in,
like infinite grains.
Lifelessness, in me,
with your fire more alive,
running at this sight
of me, at your brightly
pointed finger,
choosing a road
more to be ignored
by those, for your
whirling mind.
Does a sting connect you,
with a mindless pulsation?
A soothing distress
to reward you,
to refill you, reenter you
at doorways for your
rewritten, retold
self-scathing words.
Modern Romanticism 