The warmth never left.
The fire was never out.
A spark had kept it,
the hearth, of my yearning.
The dreams just ache,
while the closer I crawl
makes me wander inside the
rotting reflection
in a mirror.
The skies always break
open, with the clouds felling
the contents of a void.
A walk on a grim path,
feeding the birds this remorse,
while waiting for sunset.
Someone had said
the path will end in light.
Someone once read
pages of hope, glimmering
where summers are fostering
children of dance
in the winter’s absence.
Someone would not read
this face, written in the sand
of words that never end.
Someone could not believe
a heart of warmth
is the pain, while nothing extinguishes
the existing light.
There is no path ending in light,
while the flame that never dies
wakes the eyes to the smile
without the truth.
There is always this light
keeping me alive,
awake and aware to
my existence apart from you.
Modern Romanticism 