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Some labelsburn like echoes,while others are setas bricks to formhiding spaces, with moreshadows than curtains.Same withall heat from trembling knees.Same fortwo pairs of eyes, blinded tosimplest, uncurving love. We have walkeda tight rope, to experienceloss to our tears, nailed withstares, upon a cross.Our sin to sink,one fate close to a brinkhas us cancel hearts,holds us
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“Out of how we can be better than others, we feel pride. Pride signals a betterment of us, over others, making it meant for an accomplishment. Even without the boast, we can speak of the betterment, of skills, as factual in understanding how pride becomes legitimated only on where it made a person, out of
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Come around. Link arms.You’ll drown where we surroundinside reflections of our own masking.We bleed for all we leave,losing breath in all we undressin wounds that keep openingwith limbs that are folding. I find that weare never jealous in eachof those pairs of eyes,tempted throughout puddles,reflections we might have fumbledwhen we caught our heartsfrom stars to
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“If a gun can be controlled, who can say if it won’t also be controlled from being outside hands of those responsible enough to utilize one?” – Modern Romanticism A criminal speaks a singular language. One of fear. No criminal will remain a lion with bared fangs and claws, if this language can be understood
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I For Sickness, for Shame The time has come. The time did come. When bedsheets are folded over as pages of a Bible, turning to scriptures written to the weight of loss in the heaviness of the physical copy; and the water comes to take the end away. The sun rose, and then it was
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Water at the field,while eyes scream their sentiment. I can breathe,force the wind against you,while your lids liftas shutters from the winter storm. You are worn in my weather,bleeding from remaining tulipsas the petals have driedwith frost upon your lips. Final form, branded togetherin the song of defeat.Held close, at our feetare the roots that
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Tend to the grassThat burns, within the forest pass,Upon the road that floodsOur thoughts covered in glass.Mirrors against where Heaven stood,Next to fall at the pinnacle – To an ocean, shredded of debacle.With stains against snow-touched cheeks,Presenting symptoms to the bleak. Here, the eyes have withdrawnFrom the sun’s rise at dawn.
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How many womenBreathed fire through their lips?How many womenCusped water before the drought?How many womenWept for the sullen forest,Whether or notThe waters would raise enough? How many womenSpoke of sadness at the end,Wrote letters to be sentTowards crippled shores?
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A sister’s hand reaches forThe loneliest pick of a feather.One forlorn smile among a thousand breezesShifting the currents, extending the eyes.As all was the wave crashing downIn the defeated heart where thunder ceases.A sister’s hand reaching for softness,Weeping for the mirror, a reflection’s weariness. Her eyes carve the daggers for the sight,While her talons are
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While trickles find a wayTo lakes, and beyondTo the tunnels that bend awayFrom the faces that move on.For winter that never leavesThese arms in the dust,Places upon journeys astray – From the final gatheringAs tears spill from the moon,Leaving petals against the gloom.To the storms, come breathing –
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How will the fog come to clearWhen these arms take free the north,Breaking the shadows against you, here?Love caresses the midnight, sereneIn the open mouthsBreathing kisses down throats,Walking in the slowness of glaciers,Weeping in the arms of the other. Some smile came to save you,Some man in his pockets to take you,While faces were forever
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I fumble the lane,Waiting as I cry the path onward.When the smile keeps me sane,Keeps tears from carving this faceInto something less than recognizable,Captivation rains a scenery upwards.I lose the value inEverything displayed within – Before the uncovered shoreCould gift me with a song at morning.Before tempting silenceOverruns me towards tonight,I can halt these hands
Modern Romanticism 