When grace soothes giant’s steps,
Holds the teeming inside
Of a sinful flame,
Creates motions to a man
And his wounded vestige,
Holds his dearest departure
From the overture
To something now beginning to die,
There is dissertation.
There is analogy,
There is eulogy
To the one forgotten.
As his hand lands in two
With slender fingers to match
Candles beside
His broken bedside,
Beseiged by thoughts, unwinding
To be disbelieved,
There will be her palm
Stretched out for the shore,
For his world
To be adored.
Oh, nail the coffin,
Unhinged
By no swing of the hammer
To the plaintiff ministry.
Justice holds no sound
For the grace of the woman’s bound
Upon the loneliest kiss
To bolden the eyes of the sickest man
Who lifts himself from the fervent sand.
Would she strike,
Or would she swipe
The tear from the face
That never mentions itself
For the sake of one?
Love’s great call
Upon the one
Who did fall,
With eyes sent to the end
Of misery’s long trend.
Modern Romanticism 