Modern Romanticism

Treasured heat,
while placing pressure
on an area that bleeds.
Looking for life
in all kinds of leads,
erasing progress
when sunlight
sticks to teardrops.

I might find a lane
to disappear into mist,
counting no more of
all I can just release,
without answers.

Or I might reuse pain,
wherever it springs a leak.
From eyes to scars,
from the moon or the stars,
life is cursed to flow.

I've confined this
internal state, letting it
define a certain system
that's never revised.

I've refined this
great openness, in view
of all I have brought close
to wounds that don't close.

Deciding it,
with a face dipped
into a freezing puddle,
loosening a tear
to create an ocean.

Letting it
be that world
to explore, beneath
where feet roam,
where wings are flown.