Modern Romanticism

Trapped in something
more spontaneous,
than what ended
in heartbeats
after a heartbeat.

Fingers tremble,
a face swells
into a state of symphony
where sadness eliminates
better execution.

I’m become eclipsed
from a strange place
to a stranger world.

I’ve become entangled
in bedsheets,
stained in claw marks.

Having to bury
what I can’t bring up
with words that sputter
as leftover fuel
for a life that resists
inspection.

Under an oceanic mind,
where shadows swim,
I’m letting her sink
deeper than the earth
has space to swallow
death’s falls.