To those dreams,
I had walked.
Inside these winds,
we had talked.
Taking your hand.
Finding us
safe, on habitable lands.
You held your note
to that pale moon,
while a star glimmered,
to drop from your
emerald eyes.
Gardens gave rise
to those places we surmised
were roses to not ever
be plucked from
their nestled place.
We thought that our years
were ahead of us.
Fragile, for what we spoke,
while existence had been
twin ash piles.
Dreams, when awake,
always tend to break
when sorrowed eyes leads
hands, towards open doors,
while we kiss those
droplets of acid rain,
burning irises into
blinded spring.
Autumn has its way
for turning all color into gray.
A light from a fuse,
or a singular lit candle,
goes out, against
our nighttime thoughts,
weighted under dark blends,
with blue mending green
of its wounds, unseen.
Modern Romanticism 