Wait, on your plastic road – roses are grown,
temporary to being that concern for ephemeral
unity. In your wanting death,
wait under your labored breath,
facing clouds, none too empty
to call a solid home.
Face what soars, if for
another moment to envision birds
while your wings are crippled into dust.
I will not leave, in building
a ring of eternal flame,
circling us in the same name.
The lesser me, will become the greater you,
walking overboard to meet you
at that shoreline of infinity. Can you
hear me drifting towards ceremony?
Can you find me
carrying seeds for your garden,
that one, surrounding
your entrenched feet?
No more burials. Simple rises
of those songs that, in defiance to endings,
have all futures to surmise
will reign upon their golden thrones
without loss of grace.
Modern Romanticism 