Tossing around, pushing through
tears and long-relived years,
escaping embraces, inside tunnels,
needlessly mourning the roads
we dared to defend,
and always, if not forever
denying what was meaning
to mend.
I am certain
that lakes will, one day
dry themselves upon hearts,
with no more sadness,
nothing else to rain
from those depleting years
we were taking the fall.
I am reassured
through oceans that were
walked upon,
that faces are keeping
their memories, not like fugitives
racing through thoughts,
upon unburied nights,
but like petals that have gentleness
to their float, to their steer
on the slowest of currents
against history’s pages,
against what we thought
was lifting us,
though was drowning us.
We glimmer
when fog has begun
to evaporate, to vanish
its blanketing aura
around us,
seeing scenery
once covered in snow.
Modern Romanticism 