Modern Romanticism

Leave what feels wrongest
To the plains behind our feet.
We wield trumpets to call our marriage
Out from beneath our hands.

What we wield is an apology
To those who only suffered
Under the rocks of a million lakes,
Filled with their worry and tears.

We fold breaths
Like blankets, about our arms.
We seek justice
In plain sight.

May we marry
The well that drives up our vision?
May we add
The one who represents our ideal?

I feel our eyes coming to a close,
I feel our beating hearts opening.

I see our faces glimmering in the light,
While our suffering faces the darkness.

Soon to breathe only the snow across our hands,
Descending as frozen tears.