Writing
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Sequence it,a final dropletfrom an eye,for an aftermath,where shelter standsforever, if we meant to everremain gathered. Spell it, relate to it,while faces are stayingin their frozen expression.Ice is another layerupon those miles of grief; what do we dig through,in the rust, upon the crust,as fire melts a momentinto deceitful lust? We want, we cravefor something…
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The last of us to gowill be the first of us to remain,daunting and hauntingupon skeletal remains.Tragic kisses are borninto farewells, for sculptureswhere a depictionstays with its inscription. Love must abide bythose who were awareof what was slipping bywith the rain, under shelterfrom storms and pain. Life would not rewritewhat keeps itself roped,around necks of…
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I cannot make out a breath,lost among silver pathwaysstraight into desertion,since she’s released her owninto that crowd. A disappearance,a repeated reappearancethat I couldn’t bring backto its original way.It became loston its silver streak,with tears remaking trails,having fear as its sails. She’s a tower high,an anchor low.I am kneeling into a grave,finding nothing to savebut those…
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Am I not that signwhom you’ve shadowed?An anchor has kept you kneelingin hopes, for something elseto drop, to keep you close, or closer. In love, with a methodof having your arms outspread,your mouth wide open,hoping for what will connect,will come to rekindlea familiar rush. Who will you find,who will come from behind?He will rope his…
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Will you ever beanything other than anotherroaming, scentless petal,floating always withinthose ripples,of your current time?In finding shells upon a shore,you’ve become hollow.In seeking Hell,with nothing of yours to adore,you’ve stayed to wallow. Will that mask,hiding your tearsfor your colorful portrait,ever come loose?You’ve driven daggersfor open wounds,for open doors, but you arenever coming undone,while you have…
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I pull lettersfrom open chests,carve white into greywhere memories fade,are washing awayinto discoloration. I’ve taken those lettersforming sentences,at a sentencing to a lovethat wouldn’t stop breathing. I felt that rushof cold air, from barren lungs,when pain floatedup from an ocean’s bottomto meet me, to chastise me,for what I couldn’t believe. I had to let goof…
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Torn through, dense fibers,of your ceaseless repression.Are you growing, with this vanityin knowing that you are yearningfor something that is stirring? I have lifted your veil,drifted down your throatto your heart, decorated in embers,from piles of rotten kindling. I have remembered your tale,as one more raindropfor an endless ocean.There had never been a seed,nor anything…
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Fatal silhouette,who would you bewhen you are reminding meof what cannot be?I am losing the ideal,helping myself, letting myselflet go of your hand,letting you fallto those unknown depths. You remain, in mind,choosing to be behindunder earth, buried to bethe kin of your kind. You remain as a stainon this damaged heart,strangled by its own veins,written…
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I know I’ve been cruelthrough saving nothing morethan a shard from a broken mirror.I bled you to keep you warm,while I judged your fearsto not be your comfort, because I thought that holding youwould mean to sink intoyour thoughts, where you are gathered. I thought to understandsomeone, who was hungby one delicate strand.One thin wireof…
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In this abyssof a watering moment,I am pullingat what keeps guessingwhen it keeps pushing meto keep her open.I am pulling closer,though she remains far,enough to disbelievewhere her roots extend. I want her to roamnot from east to west,though to a subtle northto begin sensinga hidden, time-worn sensationdeserted to a disheartened chestthat loves, without thinking. In…
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Lost upontrails of ice,coated in your pale,burdening apathy.I couldn’t tell,in having eyes fused shut,who wrote your pages. They were oncewhiter than snow.They have remainedmore stilled than death.In closing that book,I have begun to float,I have begin to look pastthose tattered sailsthat guided our ship. Although, your face,your presence still burnsthin threads, into an imageI cannot…
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I am still sinking in,with thoughts that overturnothers, on this blinding pathwaywhere sunlight keeps me going –but where am I going? Back again, to those aimless ways,over to that field where growthhad been an intrusion of thorns.Color was always a thin mist,while hauntings were those clouds,gathered for memorial.Rain would bring nothing up,besides repetition, of an…
Modern Romanticism 