Wash my deep hopes
into heavy rain. Your hand
falls, with every weight
upon my heart. I’ve lost that burden,
those tears that were an ocean’s depth
at that final reused breath.
I heard it too many times,
enough to carry my sails
forward, over too many stones,
never noticing a lighthouse
to serve me a serenity
I could imagine is deserved.
A won war is a lost struggle,
merely another pair of eyes
to no more watch, to no longer
need to see settle into night
to wonder if they’ll come awake.
A risen stone contains an epitaph,
another collection of words
begging me to return.
I’ll hold one of my breaths,
as if it be your hand.
I’ll see my own eyes
within this reflective soil
that embraces you
like shallow water,
though I must cross it,
as my breaths carry these sails.
Lonely sighs released,
alongside silver vapor in winter,
and unnoticed dust in summer.
Modern Romanticism 