Walking at your left hand,
Weeping crystal shards from vanity’s look,
Burning the histories in this holy book,
As the moon shines upon the sand.
At the last kiss before a lullaby
Took you away to sleep.
This last touch before the final hour,
To keep weaving sunshine through your hair –
Before the earth in its unending stare,
Grows you for God to be aware
That love was meant for a throne
I could not build,
As I remain here to wilt.
For a heart that turns to stone,
A face ending where oceans roam.
A moonlit sequel from a finality
From drawing your form in the rust,
Filtered through cold to become dust.
Would the winter never depart
To become the refreshing Spring?
Dining upon the fog,
Sheltered in unwelcoming arms –
As I shall never
Find second love among this weather.
Waiting with hourglass that kneels
With me, at the crimson sight
To setting sun, at bleakest fright
That time could mend everything sealed.
Modern Romanticism 