Love remains a fire, roaring in a man’s heart. One long look runs out towards a feeble horizon much like a rope. A rope, a link from one journey to its never-ending stay. He can see that sun falling. It falls, as one tears can, patient upon its place to his cheek. Those tears do fall, walking another type of journey to have no other purpose, other than to feed unnoticed seeds.
At a ground where he digs a layman’s grave, he waits until he can see no more. No light will be wanted by him to re-enter. A sadness makes his hands fold together, while heat has dragged a rush of wind through green upon trees.
His face becomes that eclipse for a coming moon. He wants no light. All on his mind will remain that focus to a third hand, once held in his own, where balance remained a providing companion. Once a warmth bloomed in his soul. Now when fire moves and dances in his heart, its licking tendrils are cold. He faces all earth at his feet, like stepping onto a wintery cloak upon grass. A moving heartbeat, though nothing generates it, to him. Nothing besides undeserved life, at this final hour he whispers a scornful prayer to that intruding moon.
He waits for his eyes to shut, for darkness to become his permanent company. A sun drawing itself over with blankets and a quilt to conceal itself of light. This man walked. This man kept his heart motioning to a journey to be lost. Here, he loses himself, at that sting of love, beguiled by nothing other than humanity’s familiar absence.
At some next second, he captures his memories in a few droplets of rain to see within that faint puddle, cornered within creases in his fingers. Still with few rays of illumination to see what resembles a solid grief, inside that bitter liquid.
Another second to look up at a world of his own, painful to be his own, though still his own. If his eyes close, remain closed, a morning will come. It will set dew, not tears, on his face to warm away that pain. If for another second to be crude to his grief, another day will resemble another leaf for new words. New words, with other fates to steal to this man’s presence with hands not cupping his tears, not reaching for an invisible palm, and not embedded in dark.
Modern Romanticism 