Modern Romanticism

Not the train
can bring a soul back to
all burned meadows, the unyielding pain.
With water for the leaves,
eyes for the grace of a hip,
a mother's kiss upon tainted dew
in all collected memories
brought forth towards renewed sceneries.

Love explores a day in life,
weeping for half, then joy for the other.
Simplest kiss, brought to smother
the stains from a withered crown.
Her eyes, her life in the strife,
the winter born upon her back - 

Were all messages, all endings
too soon to leave
to fade into white, to desert mending.
Her eyes for winter's course
upon the tragic path,
though love had known to fly
before tears sent her to die.

Fill the gaps,
hurt what is left, to treasure breath, - 

a sigh before all eyes had wept.
Sleeping beneath your moon, overlapped
in the safety of a million shadows
still burning meadows.
A father's rose, a mother's wilted quilt - 

covers us in the still-birth - 

for what is naked in the earth.
We live for the other,
die for another.