Modern Romanticism

We left our burial,
of its golden color, forgetting
what would keep us
surrendering in its entanglement.
We are bleeding winter
from our veins –
ice-covered roots,
mixing with a silver sheen
from one remembrance,
one encroaching moon.

We are matching
what takes to emptying
our throats, our voice
of its substance.
Take us to be children,
lifting our eyes
to see who scorns us,
among our mire-coated bodies –
of disdain keeping us warm.

I’ll love, until our darkness
loses us. I’ll stand, above our history,
pleading to a god’s vacant throne
for flame to keep lighting
our fallen states.

I’ll wear these marks,
these scars upon our hands,
our necks, our legs,

until beauty has an answer
we would not abandon,

until there will be space in Heaven
to keep our bread, our flesh,

kneaded and unbroken.