Come here, to say
The moon is not the direction
You pray.
Hope for our rise
That we might not be
Cold, with the north,
Sapphire blue.
I will bandage your wings,
To take flight
Over peaked mountains,
Over landscapes
Once burned in heated sorrow.
I will give, to never take
All the blessings we ever rose with,
To speak volumes
Over cliffs, to the slowed crawl
Of a growing forest.
Each tear of yours
Will create another monument.
I cannot scorn what I have worn
To let drop
The petals from decaying eyes,
Raising the statues towards buried skies.
All the blue,
With the green around you
As the moss to surround the cross,
Displaying all our once-frozen Heaven
Becoming the rain
Drenching our cheeks,
Apart from pain.
Modern Romanticism 