Modern Romanticism

Until
the eager stars
come falling as common rain,
with the uncommon,
the rare
immaculate drops
from your stare - 

there will be bent forms,
there will be surrender
to the one bleeding heart,
the sun.

Until the graves begin to soothe,
as countless as stars,
with the faces, directed,
undirected.
With the grief,
the disbelief
in the love that led them - 

there will be lost flesh
on the end of mercy.

There will,
inside the hottest sun,
the warmest heart,
still be the fullest love
to keep our eyes closed.

Until death moves us
to answers, from unanswered souls
able to ask without being able
to come back.

Until the graves move us
to kisses deserted from God's hand.
Until the lowest tide
can push us closer
in the sounds of splashes and clashes
under the sun
as a cold candle.