Some part of me
knows nothing of northern
lights that transfer
heat, through darkness,
wafting a ceiling that keeps us
arrested in excuse,
keeps us reused
in moments, even when
unamused. Even when
our sentences are unsound,
we are perfect, around.
Lift off, take off
pieces that matter little,
when we are everything large.
Even when
broken in two,
scars are recalled at stars,
pinpointed in everything between
space, fused inside grace.
Even when
love can follow
a star that never knew
its path forward,
it’ll hold onto those messages,
those description written
in black ink,
sent towards a scenery
pulled back into imagery.
Modern Romanticism 