A soul keeps crying
for something that lingers behind,
following with a slave’s whip
against flesh, against a shell.
Whose Heaven is what kind of Hell
to the perception of bereavement?
Someone wants to suffer
here, among limited debris.
Can tears forever fall?
Can rain forever decline
the life, from clouds
that shroud the sunshine?
No one can find freedom,
when leaking their heartbeats
between fingertips,
like bitterness from sand,
from a forsaken land.
No one’s screams
will be heard, when the moon
stays connected with the sun.
An eclipse becomes the one
who goes, in earnest,
to decorated gallows.
Modern Romanticism 
Leave a Reply