Modern Romanticism

There’s a time for each of us
to bury our valued fates,
with nothing left to surrender,
nothing left to remember
but the black ink
upon a faded sheet of loose-leaf,
letting them go, beneath,

letting them run, towards that nebula,
towards that sun, where colors
will swell, before all goes gray.

There’s these memories
tossed with hurled debris,
from racing winds,
while there are these words
drawn like portraits on the white,

leaving us to depict
something, for eternity’s sake.

There are lips we’ve kissed,
strands of hair we’ve felt,
while there are places we’ve knelt
to recall what we’ve missed;

whereas there’s that light
we often ignore, leading a boat
lost in a storm.

There’s that salvation
for a soul that drifts,
from someone’s arms.