Modern Romanticism

I tend to forget
those tolerable simplicities.
I keep dreams, more than
what’s a mere shadow
in that corner, marked with dust,
marked with a blanket
of remorsefulness.

I mend what’s remembered
in times of sinking pain,
because I haven’t forgotten
what’s true, as it remains
even what’s blue,
in the beyond.

I gather photographs,
twisting secrets with everything
I care to keep conceiving –
a conception, a beginning
of endless reminders
of what I hold, what I’d not scold
even what pain comes close
like a curtain, for a window.

I am not overlooking
when I am looking ahead.
It is the same, as when I am
never demeaning myself
in looking over, these shoulders,
towards a colorful past,
to not bring forward
those ever-faithful moments.

I filter through
a changing expression,
recalled times, I come back to.
I enter inside of what’s true,
as it’s captured in the heat of sand,
within an hourglass
that fractures itself, repairs itself,
always in time.