Gray sunshine.
Fallen hours,
like springtime petals
on your eyelids.
Nothing blinds.
No one sees
us, in this forest where we
pray for insomnia
to keep us floating.
Awake. Always asking
birds to keep singing.
On our hearts, sleep never
keeps anything closed.
Neither eyes,
nor rhythms of heartbeats,
while we let teardrops
fall into clouds,
staring into
darkest blue.
We remain awake
to take our sight,
into height. While those
winters will pass from summer,
without hope to dress us
in their silver and white,
we’ll one day
pass thoughts of gray
beyond dismay.
To love, into scenes where
we hold hands on cliffs
that spill over our words,
where we might
leap off to take flight,
hands will keep their hold,
stars will find our souls
aged to be old.
Modern Romanticism 