Without those blocks
to surround you, at your doorway
you remain, reside in openness,
losing faith among talkative lips,
prayers that wish to be heard,
while the emptiness of pages
have lost their purpose for words.
Open, in what stays simple,
being always careful
in counting your moments,
dancing around a cure,
to stay closed in what you endure.
Open further, though not
to bring a carelessness
to a heart, with worth you forgot,
while promises are tied up
at their pauses, at being
written vows.
A blank page, an immaculate stage
can reveal a final act, bringing you forth,
though not with that deceit
that stalls your worth.
To something that simply
writes again, risks again
the heart that stayed more closed
at your fear of heights,
being open at only a first step,
to doubt upon the foreseen mile.
Modern Romanticism 