Not Romantic Anymore
Not Romantic Anymore
We are healing rituals
With all the dusk melting on our shoulders
Across the poolside of raw, dented metal bones
‘All the state is not romantic anymore’
I heard my mother, under her bleeding bandages
Proclaim to me, in a light voice,
Mildly rowing towards the forbidden art of ashes
‘All the state is not romantic anymore’
We strum the birdsongs across the Eden
But shed blood on the same auburn guitar
The streets are poet's hands
Cupping the spring blossoms like
Newspaper cones of fresh tulips
But it will watch you sink
Under and beneath dead white roses
Still looking like an unkempt, dried chaplet
Placing softly all the rosaries under the tunic,
Like sins in a jar of coveting spades.
In this countryside
You and I will watch
Wild horses churning up dust with their hooves
Yet not failing to watch
The pyre of monks
Heaved with whiffs of smoke
Darker than black tea.
This state is not romantic like Campanile bell tower,
Sighting the mosaics
And the city’s crimson roofs.
Not too like renaissance art,
Or the terracotta-tiled dome,
And even you.
This state is bloodshed eyes, exhausted bodies
And dying minds of the prison.
This state dedicates Grecian architecture,
But not once our songs, origami or prayers.
This state speaks mostly of God,
Knowing not it is our dad rusting
In the ascending climb of terror.
This state talks about power,
Knowing not it is our mother
Made with hushing fables of rain kisses
This state is not romantic anymore,
But the trees are,
The music to our birds are too.
This state is not romantic anymore,
But you are,
And so am I too.