Her name in safest regard.
Bewildered to me, that these tears
drop to make the stones,
sunken with all the bones, –
ashen in color,
washed out of salience.
Modest maker of all love,
while she burns the pages
at the furthest
lighthouse.
The rush to the lanes,
an hour of hardship
to land, for an eternity
in her eyes.
Beyond the mere importance
to a singular beating heart.
Beyond the necessity of a moon
taking us into starlight.
Our past comes close,
wields all directions.
Bones become the soil,
time becomes the toil.
Importance burns
into the beyond.
Her turn to call out
The sentence,
in the advance.
Modern Romanticism 