I have long been hiding
under sheets made for withered,
deserted green – waiting here,
with a mile still to be discovered,
though I am covered.
A dead form, before
all those passing children
leaving their laughter
with fleeing winds.
Spring leaves are underneath,
with me, while I am not
within their purpose. I am not
mirrored in their place.
I hold hands with a golden flame,
a torch that burns those dry
forests, those that refused to die,
nurtured in those with crying eyes
to remember, among collected seeds.
Long arms are leaving me,
from enwrapped shapes, of boughs,
as I am giving in
to what has been believed to be
a shelter, a singular destiny.
Covered in dark. Forgotten,
like an autumn that knew
nothing else, other than to lend cold
before a winter buries all in white,
for someone’s promise,
someone’s hope to be drawn
on blank sheets.
Modern Romanticism 