Modern Romanticism

Bold ones,
catering to a blessing
that went out with a candle
once raised,
without exhalation
to reveal hesitation.

Here’s to that light
that kept refusing us,
in our blinded sight.

I have been the last one
questioning where you came from.
You were, gone with those winds,
leaving the same way
you came in.

A long way to walk
from your delicate rush.
No one knew your face,
as no one answered
to your trace.

We fed our fire
our flesh, heated up
like a furnace,
steaming our windows,
screaming for shadows,

while marching,
with a funeral’s
dragging pace.