Modern Romanticism

Should we even dance,
sharing these same creases?
Pages are reduced to numbers,
in countless memories.

We neglect an understanding
for what’s become overgrown,
what’s been overdone,
overused in endless reminder.

We pause at a turn,
seeing what’s over our shoulders,
listening to invisible hearts,
deafened in what they’re telling us,
beneath this falling rain.

Thunder lights a match
at a settling of unanswered prayers,
noting what flickered, what came,
before it escaped into shadow.

That last page to burn
will encapsulate us all,

in reinvented imagery
when we are listening
to soundlessness,
without the sun.