If a breath
can soar, beyond death,
while lungs can be
filled with words of
pages described with love.
If our death can
still stay legs, to stand
on a shore where
we fill our hands
in those higher stares.
That height, this altitude,
born at growth of stems.
Relief builds, for thorns we shed
as flesh mixes in with
petals, with songs broad,
caresses at a width
with a sundown’s horizon.
When we die, keep holding that
exploring sigh never taken back
when we dress for each
occasion where we preach
of eternal love at smoothing tides,
matching our shape,
facing our grace.
Modern Romanticism 