No one knows as much
as the one who held on
to the shadows,
distant, in a cloud’s leaving
a tearstained scenery
beneath, at these feet
where you lay,
bleeding in defeat.
But I did, as I did not
wish to keep you
at that agonizing distance,
though weather proved itself
the miserable weight.
You are reburied
in a shell, cast in stone,
heated from a dispassionate hell.
A numbness, carried on
from teardrops that drowned us
in currents that lost us.
Once, always in love,
now being here, turning eyes above
to see nothing but dark clouds,
with nothing but curtains
coming down.
Modern Romanticism 