Modern Romanticism

One lost light.
One, believable, in being
divine, in being.
A fatal moment, here in this
garden of deep regrowth,
careless overgrowth.
It stretches everywhere,
lets me breath warm air
once lungs swallowed tears.

Smooth ribbons. Widest gifts
in decorations, in flame.
Shadows are cast,
swelling seconds will last,
as tired heads become settled
in repeated relief.

I am craving another mark
on this flesh of your flesh.
I am standing – here, I am hoping
you are bringing your torch
to set our place ablaze,
to remind our minds
how we’re fazed.