White-out
your name, among
the temporary,
for I wish
for pain to escape faster,
needlessly going
for heartbeats that whimper.
I am astir,
always in your air,
exiting from the doorways
of your lungs.
Another hour
left, to be tugged,
on a rope, upon a slope,
yearning for the next year
when I will have
an ocean of sweeter tears.
Blossoms,
ones that keep burning
without much struggle,
while there is forfeiture,
in being stilled, here.
Being carried, over there,
being like seeds without direction
into that disheartened abyss.
There is healing
expressed, elsewhere.
There is finality
breathed, everywhere.
Modern Romanticism 