Who holds the rose Against the tide of hurt? Who holds the stem against The flowing blood, Acting as the dam, Acting as the building Where I may pray For a new love, To be thrown over my grieving heart, Like one velvet robe, Comforting my lonely spirit? Who says that the idea of love has collapsed Against the soil, of this Earth? Who says that romance has died, When all we do, upon its absence Is kneel down and cry? I am, in this moment, A pauper with his hands held up to the sun, Held up to the face of a passerby Who instead offers me shade, For it was the sun I saw, As it was the passerby who grew as the rose. Am I alone, In this world full of shadows?
Modern Romanticism 
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