Abandoned spark.
Hoping. If everything can be
all that we, carried in heart,
time can stop. Let it be –
another cessation at the demonstration,
one more kiss, drawn in
like breath that moved a petal
from a rose,
hardened into bleak metal.
Lowered eyes.
Watering our earth,
in our cries. Why else
can what supports us
be shifting? Why else,
with many more breaths,
can our views, what we view
be drifting?
A wind takes our hands
from cupping calmer waters,
while we bring forth
those storms.
A tragedy leaves us
wide-eyed, open in unmerciful
hammering of pressured hearts,
while screams will be muted
in repeated contemplation,
in defeating resignation.
I have left a seed
beneath our stumbling feet,
waiting for an ocean
to raise a garden,
from salt-covered wounds,
while lakes recede their purpose,
without mutual comparison
through lifeless echoes.
Modern Romanticism 