Graying skies,
I clean bitterness
from tables, where held
your portrait, where often leapt
my heart into a solid frame,
to seek your colors.
In all things, designed,
symmetrical in their outline,
details will gather
like storms of reminiscence,
like funerals, where black
is the shade of craved
forgetfulness.
Under a tree,
I condemn this struggling heart,
to hear what little I imagine
runs, like blood through veins,
in each springtime leaf,
as I give to despondency
a tear, in its highlights,
under a sun that bare.
With unwelcomed patience,
I dress my wounds
with white of canvas,
drawing your lips into a curve,
retracing this moment into a memory
that fades back into horizons,
flat and soundless.
Modern Romanticism 