Sometimes, all to ever do
is to never answer you
the way I would if you grew
beside me, on the days through
meadows laced in morning dew.
What is there to do,
besides refrain from fulfilling you?
Your kisses would be bandages,
your eyes, distant puddles
in a forest where roots explore
the sadness of depth.
You will venture to heal,
with a motive to save
the life that must die,
the soul that must cry.
But you are crying, too.
You are wanting,
though unwilling
to swim away from the shores,
seeing the sands, not the oceans
as endless.
Were the forests limiting you
in the expanse of fallen tree,
dead leaves?
What will leave you,
besides another forfeiting petal
the pain will hand you?
You loved
until your eyes became dry
with the sand.
Forest limbs of vines and roots
stretch your veins,
receding as waves from the ocean,
while you remain laughing
from the mountains to the cities,
pleading for the ear.
Modern Romanticism 