This fateful scar,
one from a wound
caused to get you
to find reason,
to adopt an excuse
to seek its desolate,
replenishing meaning.
In the dark,
you see light,
but it is there
where you’ll begin
crying on one
imagined shoulder.
Who do you miss,
or who would you kiss
to melt all these sorrows
into all hopeful,
immaculate tomorrows?
What can you ever
reveal to the open?
Shed your skin,
unveil that which
wasn’t the disguise,
was just the bruise
to discolor the Heaven
present in your eyes.
Love is not a playground
for you to remain
unable to reach your hands
high enough. Because
you’re always looking down
at what to make,
what to revisit
in the holes,
in the puddles.
Modern Romanticism 
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