Like leaking highways,
running freely
to those endings,
colliding against happiness,
within sceneries
that are deserting
love, at its goodbye,
at the released sigh.
Like what we could call
a space, for our bliss.
Like what we could name
a face, for a kiss,
we were once trapped,
wanting more
to the torture,
blowing out candles,
to get grounded,
in our roots,
burning in thrashing limbs,
wielding fire in our hands,
our ancient sin.
Like what we could forever ruin,
when messages are sent
through ashen debris,
a color for its sounds –
a lasting passage in its emptiness
when nothing ran down
from blindness, for ink.
Like what we could never reconnect
among wires, from opposing sides
where distance reminds
us, of where winter resides,
keeping us pale,
on hope’s endless scale.
Modern Romanticism 