romanticindeed
-
“It shows a great deal of insecurity and even a sign of one’s attitude of betrayal to forget those who are closest to this individual and soon focus on the world of what it, in its vastness of distractions, should be paying attention to.” – Modern Romanticism We cannot expect the world to care. It…
-
If answers hold me back,let me have none. Let me havesomething most prominent.Let me be hereto count seconds like hours,to find hours the sameas everything all the same,as all things unchangingwith the seasons, unchanging. Let me hold hands with a god,deaf to every prayer,from one faithful worshipper.I feel divinity’s skin, dried to a desertwith no…
-
Who needs meto return, when one needsa rope around their feet?Stability in the shape of stillness,a tightness in the placeof a woven bond, a reminder of what they’d lost,though be mirrored of whatthey’ve always retained. Out of what naked scars,can I reprieve? Out from thesemarks on unbandaged arms,can I offer anything but another sigh?Given from…
-
Call it strange. Call it somethingto blame. Call it a heat to hover one’s hands,and name it as a place where lightcomes from, while it had been bornfrom an era of darkness. Possessor. A hand wrapped as burning ropearound a brittle, kiss-starved neck.One more whispered longing sent upwardsto branches in a thinning evening.For me to…
-
Was it always a stillness?Or a cloaked gentleness? This repeatedexhaust, a motionless stir in a senselessdeprivation from being well,after asked if I am well. Listless inside a vacancyafter knowing I have lost my soul,bleeding here where a canvas used to bepainted in Heaven’s colors, as I often confuse a curewith moments I cannot mirror. I…
-
If in the presentation, I choose tohug the bark of strange trees,I’ll hope with rushes plungingfrom softened eyes that those rootslike hands, can form their gestureof prayer to a man with his years in ruin,with his gaze always looking awayfrom a rotting sun in a fatal distance. Whoever thought that sadness could melt?Whoever thought that…
-
Open your bruises. Keep your eyesthe music of waterfalls. I longto kiss the daytime into silence,while we caress, when we undressall our wounds into becomingscenery we cannot ignore,cannot come to abhor. Take the message of a rotten man.Hear his plea, from beneath,where sickness is his parasite,and also, his appetite. He holds blood in his hands,brought…
-
Fade beyond curtains. Leave,while this world gathersin this empty room. White walls,decorated halls. Tables setwithout a fire to burnneedless smiles down. A candle is all that remains,with its wax, the taxto waste for no betterment.I’ll melt, fusing in withcolors and limited smoke,before everything enters darkness,before no morning ever arrives. For eyes will sting with tears,ears…
-
The better we are, without leaning intoa moment undressed in the tattered wildof our minds. Listen to those crows.Do they know something? Another injuryto count against the reflectionof what we share, consciously. Love holds roses, bleak and barren,dried without tears to water them,because we stood on clouds,hoping we were fallingfor nothing better. Nothing better than…
-
Masterful to tell. Another head to roll,another chance to take, before drifting offwithout those symptoms we clutched upon,sick and always comforted, in our fever,in our warmth. What lies are we telling?What enemies are we escaping fromwhen we are turning into corners? Culling our own herd. Lessening the approach,the tears that fall from burning hands,caught under…
-
Change your scenery. Neither of our sickness,not a hand, held upon an open, bruised heartcould have quickened us with its pace.We were steppingstones, healing if onlyto be torn, flooded, with the damwe held back or broke open, as perhaps doors should stay closedwhen we step out, after we cryfor another time in hearing our echoes.…
-
Enter a trail. Repeat the wounds.Let us hunger over another entre,and leave us jeopardized. Another state to heal us,too late. Another reflectionto find closed wounds, reopeninglike book covers, as our eyesare the memories inside the pagesto go blank, reintroducingourselves to colored wounds, after a period of denying the ending,when a period was never there. Leave…
Modern Romanticism 