Love
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I can, run adrift,distancing petals with you,burning hope,like with that familiar ropewe hold, tighter than hands, and sometimes,we did scar our hands,treating pain as a remedywhen we were somebody. I can always come back,opening doors, like they wereof restored fortresses.I can keep repeatinghistory’s elementsof limping flesh, or I canstall this approach,raising walls, like they arewaves…
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You are, what regrowssafely – congested, in running ivoryfrom burning eyes,those that only onceburned awayany shred of you. Whenever, youregrow, from thorns,from bitterness,in stale perfume –to clinging memories, keep on, move on,while nothing stopsthis heart,from attacking itself. Live on, go onto subside yourselfamong desolate substitution. I’ll repeat, here,what lingers inside buried cold.You are a form,…
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“Between the black or the white, there is nothing but everything brought forward from a certain past into an uncertain future.” Modern Romanticism What a machine knows is to compute A or B from a scenario, or from a file where something can be accessed in its objective light. What it cannot do is comprehend…
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I can run backyour grief, to those letters,disowning yourneedless trials,empty as all airyou rush, from your panting lipsstraight into me. You left, your wordslike seeds from a grave,rebirthing a forestfrom shade. To stretch,even without roots,to want for meaningto take place –for anything would be betterthan coldness, while truthhad remained cloggedin your earth,your bewildering mind, your…
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I found outthat words are only markers,or barricades,to stall uson this path to imperfect shelter.We bring our lights forward,burning in this rush, of our faiths, tested at each step,leaving this ground tremoring. Our hands, held for needed moments,to signal a disposition,to feel this lingering side effectto a life that only stoppedfor the other, with pauses…
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I came to believethat heartaches were wanderers,that teardrops were stormsmeant to scatter. I’ve foundthat you’ve come hereto remind me. You’ve comewith bitternessto your bite,with soundlessnessto your heart, while with a mute pair of lips,you’ll want for everythingthat heartbeats had skipped. You’ll face that fire,bringing your veins to a boil,hearing what littleanother offering of wordshad promised…
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Come to blame?Those cracks, both ofa heart, of a mirror,breathing smokeover a broken reflection, as you might bewhat you say you might be, or you might bethe same as those cracks,repairable as the nextbroken faith. I brought you here,to a place whereall of your scars can be seenfrom an uncovered spot,where shadows cannotseal your worth.…
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I can confirmthere is an estrangement,there has beena taxing embellishment,while there was alwaysa long-lasting sustenancethat has becomean overwhelming starvation, as we were bornfor beauty’s sake,though never receivingHeaven’s answers. Escaping to Hell,if only to find shadowsto conceal us.Our light,under an undoing disguisewere this world’s drumming sound,bringing healing all around, while now we lose breath. Helpless, under…
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Make your standhigh above the delicate rush,the evening pushto be carved in sands,painted, strokedin asymmetrical disaster. Waves came in, faster,drawing your head to a sea,to see what could notbe believed. You’ll crush what remainsas always itself, ample.It eluded arms, that swingtheir embrace, aroundempty air. At first, hearing a cryin a shell, outside your own.At last,…
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Another breath,full of smoke. Full, with remedies,reigniting certainties,realizing fatalities, upon thatinborn rush, running with clogged veins,fleeing with uncontrolled fire,returning with unresolved desire,leaving after going through,without you. I wake up, surrounded by walls,hung with unfamiliar portraits.I stand up, embracing a ghost,hearing heartbeats bounce from cornerto darkened corner, with fevers eruptingin spaces where prayers went,came back, unanswered.…
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Stirring withinall our contemplations,dreaming of nights, whenfascinations can blurthemselves, within faceshaving vanishedof their remorse. To all thoseworsened feelings,we hold onto teardropslike we’ve ever been heldin arms – like oarspaddling us back,in a drowning embrace, reliving a misguided tension,finding pain a relieffrom a helpless pair of wings,flying without directionin those cloudless skies, for happiness is no…
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Who made it soclouds were shaped to becurtains, covering uswith showers of repression? We are painted blackwith ink, of our grief,writing letters to a smothered Heaven,weeping for something beneath,caught between our feet,given desire between our knees. A displayof completeness, of hollowness,for what is leftin this drift? Here are used upexpressions, from faces,of those that weremeant…
Modern Romanticism 