Was it too much
when candles were relit?
Was it too much
when dispositions were relived?
Revived – from the burning shell,
a transparent hell,
a forest fire,
where all your life’s eternity
had been a tragic calamity.
I knew too much.
You grew too much,
out from my bloody thorns.
I laid a price
on my fiery forehead,
a fever you constantly touched,
but never judged.
At that, I saw you reaching
for some other distant shadow,
where storms were surging
and was your messenger
for comparisons.
Embellishing. Surrendering
over and over, to the fog
that crippled a vision,
lost on the rocks,
because it was too much
to keep us wrapped in leaves,
buried in kisses, embraced
in an engulfing sunrise,
as you were feeling your pulse
moving you away.
You sought it, in yourself,
to keep sinking,
despite the love, despite the breath
that ever kept sails onward,
that ever kept senses forward.
Modern Romanticism 