Folded pages, with redesigned stages,
turning everything into repetition.
Finding you within dark curves –
those that are shaped
into cloaked farewells. For had you
meant to reword your retreat?
Blinded. Being always reminded
at this array of renditions,
behind a heart that guesses at longing.
I believe in only what was
brought to life, fertilized to receive
its grand place among stars,
far from darkness, displaced
from fever and wars.
A long, careful arrangement,
turned into careless derangement,
turning a protected form,
into clarity’s child,
a birth of deceit,
of distortion.
Among bedsheets, like tidal waves
to your outlined form, showing spots
where tears were shed from
consoling storms,
you’ve kept your current,
your tides going somewhere
far from what we swore,
from what we both wore
in our breathless nakedness,
dropping our shield,
replaced with swords to wield
to our endless resignation
for bloodied shorelines.
Modern Romanticism 