Writing
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Watching those places – desert themselves,while watching these spacesfind themselves lasting us, between fogged eyes,holding onto open sceneries and skies,hearing what little we make of everythingbecome, again. One more yearnful caressbeyond a noose, far from all thatfades among that hourglass,because in our vision, we might lastif we are rebirthed from mirrors,not smoke of ruins. We…
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Caught in all thatrecurring blue, dropping aboveat repeated droplets of dew.At here, are youfading with everything left,burning inside our driftwhere our hands soar downto sift, to lifttears that never fellthis closely? I’ll fall if it means tobreak you, loose, while wearingthese discarded objectswe remembered, belonged to you.For you, treasuringwhat you are rememberinginside these emptied rooms,where…
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Someone’s open palmforgot to prayfor a forgiveness, sudden,for two souls that are driftingin a universe that cannot immerseitself, in that someone’s kindness.Receding to random stars – caught in our blindness. Continue to forget us,those who are not like uswho need to keep believingsomeone will find us standing still.To find us, like statuesbefore we become dust,like…
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Still, those blanketsare familiar with those waves,curving at ripples, overgrowingto weighing flesh being caughtto be motionedat a slight breath – one that wantsto be its final. Still, we arehurting to keep growingthese towers towards gleaming skies,lifting all that remains familiar,if we can keep telling lies. Love can be at all those reused signals,ones that resided…
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Were you always awareof what was meant to be evaded?Avoided, like another kisslanding on your vacant arms – while I cannot imagine that youare dearest in your emptiness. Whose puddles can you facewhen either your tears or mineare collected, in circles being traced? Rings of age, under eyesred-rimmed in discolored yearswashing aside all those brittle…
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In even a lesser volume,start fires, send us higher,bending lowin keeping lowall that faithless turmoilwhere we came closeto distance each other,among dark rooms,while we should have beenwatching black candles,our fingers, our figuresburn away into ash. Uncover what we conceal,to never smothersmiles that even if never foreverwill continue to reveal.We lead on growthfor other roses,other spaces…
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Hush our song of grieffor a time, while here we wearall our sicknesses, combined.Our clothes burning at our feet,our faces weeping for change, our armsembracing what’s not healing. However, we’ll rush,however, we’ll touch –using excuses without answering much,leaving our scars open to another morningentering in through a window,along with a bird’s gleam of eyeswatching us…
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Who’s examining you,contemplating all those corners?Each more tragic than the next,each more fitting for what’s leftin your heart of souls –those you’ve siphoned of light,dividing black from white. Those who’ve kissed your hands,laid a teardrop on your palm, are those peoplemere razors for your veins?Are they who remind youof what’s being lost among streams? You’ll…
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“If we can say that love must be deserved, then we ought to also believe that death can be something deserved upon another. Controlling those uncontrollable, inevitable gifts or punishments upon another, for who can believe, with legitimate credibility upon their words, that this gamble of love or death can be ruled as a designated…
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I have explored your fears,tasted tears that have kissed your neck,bruised, at strangulation from time’srepetitious epiphanies. What don’t you know?To be whom, you want to grow?Like a serpent, your coilsare wrapped around your eternallyfading heart, while I resisted letting goof what continued to snow. Keeping danger clear,letting your hopes crossover a rope, though it was…
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I can keep you clear,though you refuse to stand nearwithout showers crashing downsurrounded at these scenes,among a lost, forbidden town. Take me to your grave,let me see your name carvedinto white. Let me see what differsamong snowflakes or thosecollected, brittle ashesthat you became,where you were renamed. I have enoughto keep losing – holding handswith your…
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Regression. Repression,with waters, leaving an ocean uncoveredfrom eyes that left trails,painted blankfrom liquids we drank. Another scene smothered,another face coveredwith dust, for another, remembered. Withdrawn. Redrawnof a portrait captured in mind,a haunting of a similar kind. Another smile, vanishing close,another coffin nailedthrough hands that dropped,in knowing what stopped – another heart, buried in curtains,that soil,…
Modern Romanticism 