Modern Romanticism

Beneath summer clouds,
we wait for the rain
to keep stains engraved
in those we failed to save.

Oil mixes in with water
when remorse marries into
the next life,

harmonized with
these falling petals.

A mute chime
blanketed with the fog –
the state of our hearts
being bogged,
returning to the brink
where silence has
its own sound.

A remembered crime
leaves us, upon the time
when we have been led across
the distance. Those gaps,
on the weeping roads,

the challenge where
I will, where we will
continue for another light,
carrying this torch
that guarantees our sight.