Modern Romanticism

Heaviness has kept
our forms from having leapt
from that cliff,
because we were reminding us
to what makes the weight,
reflected in tears we've wept.

To feet, stagnant in stone,
with skin that became more
aligned with a wishful kind,
more with an eternal sort
to be counting these shards
of a reflection, to sort.

In an ocean, tedium had become
what we were under the moon.
We've crawled, like infants
seeking no mother,

fathering ourselves, instead,
while looking on, bravely
deciding upon commitment.

What a garden to fill up
with stones from collection,
with petals from resurrection.

What an epiphany
to sustain, to be ongoing
in all that we have sired.