Who needs me
to return, when one needs
a rope around their feet?
Stability in the shape of stillness,
a tightness in the place
of a woven bond,
a reminder of what they’d lost,
though be mirrored of what
they’ve always retained.
Out of what naked scars,
can I reprieve? Out from these
marks on unbandaged arms,
can I offer anything but another sigh?
Given from more wilting lips,
like those petals that have already
been broken from their bloom,
from frost unto their doom.
Springtime green are those existences,
fragile upon infinite, sacred miles.
I’ll hope to the kingdom of Heaven
that a fire will never disperse
whenever I lean in, to converse
with those tragedies –
grief’s treasured maladies.
I’ll hope for all I remind,
that their remembrances of stones
will remain as their glory.
A life well-won,
a death without the sun
to spread light – though, to that life
once risen from bottomless earth,
becoming memories at eternal birth.
Modern Romanticism 