Soft glint in the woodened reflection
Beside where a mirror collects the nerves,
An awakening to a cruel resurrection
Of lifted pain, to the shuddering sigh,
With a willow’s branch that waves goodbye.
She sleeps in the comfort of near-death,
Evasive of my never-ending tears,
Her eyes that have closed, are not concealed
For to the shadows around, she is revealed.
Adjusted to the dark, these eyes of mine
Burn as does the heart, confined in the seal
Of drive, upon the wake of a sign
Where love heals all standing less than mine.
With wind, what radiance could ever expose
Time’s happening upon the glinted rose.
A small stream of light, petals to be bent
In the collapsing nerve of a frailty
Where words have no mark, as symbols
Hold their figurative sign upon the curve.
To the window where comes an exhale
To God’s breath, sweet to her pale
Face, countered by the leftover red
Of youth in what is now newly-dead.
Modern Romanticism 