Retreating apart from
bare sentences revealed in the sun.
You grieved even in
the love we were buried, within.
For orchids, we cross,
as in sadness, we depart,
having left golden glimpses
for something among sentences.
Bare words, abandoned in light,
lowering eyes that see unity shattered.
With grace, our sceneries mattered
until turmoil had grown.
Growing upon the next vine,
all are always the same thorns.
Our eyes, no longer lovelorn,
seeing the sun on its climb.
Back to love, back to our divine
shape, upon the wire
we step across, to meet our desire.
Cherishing arms, wanting lips.
Rivers that babble on
towards the next doorway
where no one leaves, nothing skips.
Modern Romanticism 