Modern Romanticism

I've often said
life's too short to speak
these hard words,
if I couldn't just place them
where I couldn't see them.

I've often dressed
this form of mine
in bandages of black,
showing up for a funeral
for history's voices.

Roaming in the space
of memorized icons,
those who've gone forward,
swallowing their tears -
the juices of fruit.

Bleeding upon bedsheets,
making love with the sorrow
that I've come to accept
remains a part of tomorrow.

What filters through,
besides the dust
that carries life in swerves,
the patterns of rust?