Modern Romanticism

Carried under
the returning eyes,
the swelling
of countless times to cry
before a sunset
that speaks to its mark,
of an ending to daytime’s
hinted mystery.

Walking under
the breaking of a spark,
because hope had peaked itself
before we abandoned
the leftover mark.

Another tragic
rewinding to another day
when all our fears
are counted, leaning into
the union of dismay
with the fears of yesterday.

Another time to bleed
what remains, in these veins,
blooming our tears
like dewdrops on the ends
of days, of mornings,
when all is left is mourning.

Tell our hearts
to mute their song
of grief, when faces
are brought back,
in disbelief.

Remember that bitterness
can be obsolete,
when love is the witness.