Modern Romanticism

Wandering closer
to those lips, a haven
of leveled focus, of interaction
with the dust that collects
in hands that have washed
memories, from clouds.

She has staggered
through a wilderness of song.
She has reunited
right with wrong – the same sense
of misunderstanding
I am remembering during days
we were pretending to love,
in those disserving plays.

She has stung her future
in sympathies, breaking her ways
in a group of great reminders
of moments that are intersecting.

Love-drawn circles,
waterfalls that are moving
footsteps on their rush,
on a divine race towards paradise,
while nothing ever belongs.

No one ever stays for long
in her presence,
without decaying like autumn,
like light finding darkness
not a home.