Modern Romanticism

A note,
lost to mild winds.
A life that had ventured
on a long-enough road,
laying its seeds
it deemed enough,

for they were its tears
speckling that note
carried on winds
for the middle-ground.

Someone kept themselves
that feathered witness –
that bird from its perch –
a crow with its insight,
for someone else
must be remembered.

Someone else rose up
from death, with bewilderment
evident at their breaths.
They were loved,
with eyes crossed
upon what was viewed,

being what was true.

Being that they
could not seek shelter,
they had burned it
into gray.

They were remembered,
until that day
their hands defiled a sacred spot
where the hopeful prayed.

They will be remembered,
as they were lost,
with something salvaged
from where light had been tossed.