Dressed contemptibly,
with eyes, drawn at eyelids,
artfully sown
into blindness – as you are
dreaming of gardens,
watering your heart
with facelessness.
A note, from history’s coldness
will keep you open, for more,
as to carelessness, to all
that you can afford,
I keep you waiting there,
folding pages, finding pauses
amidst musical sheets.
As you fade, as you wade
across rivers where your reflection
gets carried away,
I will be across another gap,
for I cannot find meaning
in taking your familiar path.
Live, in rise of your ashes,
drowning among oceans,
saving your scenes,
for someone else’s
matching sickness.
Modern Romanticism 