In even a lesser volume,
start fires, send us higher,
bending low
in keeping low
all that faithless turmoil
where we came close
to distance each other,
among dark rooms,
while we should have been
watching black candles,
our fingers, our figures
burn away into ash.
Uncover what we conceal,
to never smother
smiles that even if never forever
will continue to reveal.
We lead on growth
for other roses,
other spaces among fabric,
where fragrances remain scattered
in those loose, familiar breezes.
One hand holds histories, present –
presented with rings of gold,
laid on fingers,
dark in bleak tempests.
Even at a lesser volume,
fire should rise, gardens should grow
for all those years
lovers think to let go.
Under that sun,
where nothing seems new
to come into bottomless arms,
eyes can look up, bodies can
soar up to stretching Heavens.
Even at a lesser extent,
let all eyes wander to replicate
what will never tire.
Modern Romanticism 