Without song
To fill up
This moment’s belong
To the heart,
Full of the sun.
Weeping through dry eyes,
A drought of the soul.
Ache with the burn,
A back to the turn
From the door
To the sweet sentencing
On furthest highways,
Hoping
Our scenery returns,
from the bleakest shore,
Craving and saving
Sweet kisses
To the dire seconds,
We adore.
We are winter,
Adorned in summer,
Spellbound by spring,
To be drowned in autumn.
Falling further
Than we ever knew to swerve.
Weeping to fill our cups
With distant sounds.
Modern Romanticism 