Modern Romanticism

Walk past, move towards
the door on hollow steps forward.
You are answering another's word,
another tide to sweep the lush,
soft moss apart from your skin.
Grown old, worn, against the hush.

You will not remain silent
while the world grows violent.
Something dances for your curves, - 

while earth is rocking each grain of sand
for your space to become lost
pleading for the sun to never set,
living for those words that come and go.

You are the imprints of leaves
within where the snow was kept.
Beneath them, before the wind swept - 

the tears from where your face grieved,
you discovered reverence, remembrance
inside the veins of a vacant tree,
the roots where headstones lost growth.

You always find what forces severance - 

of the Spring skipping summer
to dance to the fall
of your form to a crawl.
Farewell to the statues that carved you
for the eternal view
to seasons made askew.

Hoping to love for the countless breaths
used to extinguish candles, cold
before winter conceals the light so old.

A farewell to a sun before its death.