We despair
when the autumn tree cannot
return its fallen leaves
back to the cradles resting on its boughs.
For it is like
the clouds unable to retrieve snow nor rain,
the dandelion unable to return
the lost seeds.
It is all like
a heart that cannot return back love
when it was sold to a stranger’s hands.
It is too much like
the faces that lose their tears,
the footsteps that lost their way.
I despair when
love is lost at the familiar cost,
the familiar pain, not that much strange
when the naive reign.
It is always like
when the faces turn from the kind
to be among their kind.
It is never like
the smiles most needed
when hand-in-hand, eyes are greeted –
to witness what was not lost,
to not despair at the depraving cost
when hearts are meant to bleed,
when eyes always need.
Modern Romanticism 