Ruined Renaissances

Remorse, like creepers, can become our jungle,

Where elegies are replacing sonnets and odes,

The divine, yet so human, icons

Are the last spiritual imperatives

to censor a glass door
and synchronize the remaining hours.

I carried a holly bridge across every river and precipice

And what have I become? Nothing

but an earlier boundary on a lost isle of creeks and falls

a collectible relic excavated and recovered

to better-preserve its figurative role?

Everyone reminds us of someone-

Our eyes, kept on shiny prizes, too blinded to see

Our foreheads, labeled by denials,
surrounded by oblivion.

Though we underestimate the power of loving

To the detriment of being someone’s daily daydreams,

There are no clear-cut distinctions today, no sins,

But a vertical dissolution, an inevitable futility,  

of pitch-black memories and self-indulgence marks.

Regeneration is always rooted inside;

Tomorrow- the last gap of perish will be crossed

Instead of a promised serenity zenith

Will I be reaching
a long forgotten and constantly decaying crypt?