Modern Romanticism

Passerby – a cloud,
wandering for years;
will you rain, letting go
of sighs, of gusts,
like from an open mouth?
And the droplets,
to bring forth that flood?

Staying here – a stone,
present for years,
accompanied only by moss –
this quilt of an unkempt mind,
receding with all heat
within September,
to its days of melancholy.

Yearning, while no leaves
are turning, for birth
of some newest entrance,
of what can contain
this withdrawn heart,
pockmarked with stains.

Nothing filters through,
as everything is squeezed from
a cold rock, under midnight’s sun.