Name a price. Or reverse this theme,
back to belonging inside arms
that have never held more than a glimpse,
an image’s fade, an answer’s shade.
Nothing comes back, besides those footsteps
hanging onto vanished tracks.
No one hears a voice continuing to call
for those words left unsaid,
because a heart had fled into midnight
with its faith too small.
Ivory worship. Keep our stars aligned,
our hopes combined. Hold our shadow’s hand,
letting our tears come crashing
into this ocean I have developed,
one that I have saved.
An ocean that keeps drowning
mirrors for devoted souls,
as those mirrors have captured
our scars, drawn within ever-changing
colors of weeping eyes, those that
resist losing their color to autumn’s cold,
resist looking down to memorials,
to tombstones.
Keep hope still clinging.
Let our shadows stay singing
even in that despair of white,
winter spite,
where we swear to each other,
instead of what remains unanswered.
Modern Romanticism 