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Feelings often cross.Often, we become deranged,drunk on something we namea feeling this strange.Emotions get tossed, overcliffs, towards bottomless streams.We endeavor to create them –to succumb to weatherfrom our eyes, our skies,our thoughts, together. If you want to wait,we will become engraved,together, on a stonewhere our hearts held theirplace, to atone.We will find our crippled feetwalking
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Tongue-tied. We were oncebound by truth.Held down with rings,within no fairytale. We roared with those firesthat fell to our eyes. Blinded,under surges, with urges,inside summer’s sting. Starved flesh, made to bringblackest guilt, uponimmaculate shoulders. While you areletting go, pale skin nolonger looks sick,to you. Once, blinded,in light, in dark, beingreminded of somethingwe both forgot.When you
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Fable this. Tell thisupon telltale symptoms – you connect, among thisvirus, called love, calledanother symptom outfrom someplace deep,from somewhereunconcealed. You are this stain;rain upon a crudeshelter, while nothingmoves. Each wordburied at their thirddegree. Each smile,all frowns, takento graves, into walls,burned into dust. To dust, coating your eyes.To rust that stains yourfingers. To love that neverfades
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Count raindrops, find thattears will never stopmissing you. On this curvingpath, we stay blessed,with wreaths atop our head,with eyes held toa porcelain moon, ourlone shelter in this night. Deserting ourselves to feelings,to scars we unbind, unstitch,while inside this templeof worship, we kneel to implore,to explore those scenerieswe have adored. This shelter,a pair of ivory arms,cradling
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I have beenwatering this burninggarden, knowing littlethat grief can do,while you starve underpressure. There, youplace rocks, around yourfate, inside a shelter,wanting no warmth,needing no embrace. That mouth, those fingershushing words, on no tonguethat will taste a bitterness.Here, I have taken awayall glimpses, of some sanityI had hidden away. We loved a little lie,dying on that
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Blanket those memories inan enclosed heart, in astamped envelope. We arefinding our path, among stars,watching passing debris,never fading, so longas we bear ongoing steps. Our kiss brought rocks,upon our eyes. Our yearningcame down, as crystal tears,while we dreamed of what canbe, beyond those waves.Still in pain, still among thosequestions, without answers,lands, without life. We walk,
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Turn a page. Take apetal, from where it firstsprouted. A newbornvessel, lost, in its undertow.A river, to a departurehas set afar, our matrimony.White moths gather,turned to ashes. A white altar brought forthstep after stumble. While weheld a fortune, in arms,we wept, without waiting.We turned pagesto see those stellaroutcomes, under rain. Alone, to hear our tone,to
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Hold this ropealongside, for those sideswe might have crossed. Kisses for our eyesback into amnesia,back into reminderfor what we lost. A thin ray from a moonsets us to sleep,too soon, too late. A newborn child’s curiositygrew from sheltering blankets,for lips to breathe nebulas,for arms to wield oceans.We were infants with our gazesfinding stars, while our
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Blank, that. Blanket thoseorbs of spider-woven breasts,while we breathe a towninto infantile silence. Slender one. Tender, to noneother, than a man’s hunger. Taken in. Taken, againto see your eyes this helplessto bare your flesh, in sickness,safe in a sinful story. You warn me. Kept to beingcareful. While I am here,you will demand. You willentertain these
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When upon. Whereuponthose pages we typed,described. Whenever,wherever we mourn outsidethose sides of crystalmirrors. Desperate reflection,viewing darker sidesbehind hands that conceal. These foreverpromises to believein anything more thanpainful grief. Graceful. When grateful,while wielding our courageto escape from dark halls. Wasteful. When kissestremble, under those risingeyelids that see. Always seeingpaining swells in oceans. Colored vows. Vanityoften resembles
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Grieve awhile. Find asmile, tied upon thin tracks.You were always giftedfor yearnful endings.When water everlifts you, I mightempty you. I willhand you our stories,on silver cutting boards. A new covering. Anewto heal, without yoursetting of facelessformations, in those whiteclouds. This infinite displayof dust, upon an ocean’scurves: it holds us. Warm, to kneeldown, to cold waters,while
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Build roads. Burn shelterfor desperate parasites.We attach withour eyes, vague uponlasting tracks.Bruised palms. Brokendoors, open to lightbetween cracks in a smile. Are we fulfilled?Filled up, witha mouthful of ashes. Are we instilled?Reminded, to believein all thingsless than grief. We have openedcovers, to close our scarsin referenced endings. We have lost moreupon winter,in its choosing. White
Modern Romanticism 