What love
Was a purchase, not a sale?
What life
Was not stolen, did not resist
Its abduction
To the imprisonment of a heart?
Whose footsteps
Were not covered by the snow?
When lovers walk backwards,
They were disguised.
Whose eyes
Were lifted to the sun?
That bright, blinding spot
That were like motherly arms
To the love that was a guess
To a future without fear.
This far
To the stars,
To the endless sunshine
Where a heart gave its start.
Some ray
From a singular presence.
Some eye
That entered the night.
With a love that never set
Without a moon taking its place.
With a given choice, to flee
From the furthest one can see.
No doubt,
No turnabout
From the sun’s missing presence
Nor from the decadent warmth.
An open wound,
An open heart
That doors cannot close.
Open eyes
To the miracle pressure,
Stopping the bleeding
Without binding the flesh.
Modern Romanticism 