Being one, with deceit,
a formal kind of forfeiture,
cradling a weight, above my lap
like a cherished infant,
letting mildew grow
on the tearstained curtains –
those I never dried,
from desperate years.
Forgetting the reason
he grew up, designing himself
to die in an embrace,
long as the universe,
though confined to a void.
Embracing the phase
of a moon, of a life
that doesn’t aim to give away
those marks on his soul,
when on his knees, to pray.
Desperate to leave,
while door are wide open.
There are calls
coming from hollow space,
similar to that which
never goes out, never runs off,
like a candle, with grace,
without leaving
a trail of smoke to witness.
A clouded path to follow,
an answer to disguise in vapor,
lost in a book full of words,
where white, where immaculacy
was a wasted habitat.
Modern Romanticism 