Modern Romanticism

Through those apertures,
into voids where lost voices
connect in the spaces
we were granted,
but avoided.

We left our footprints
to be kneaded,
in an ocean of mud,
remaining behind us
to coax rainfall to erase
that which won't
fade in time.

Raising the blue,
through a tragic birthright,
since love never signaled us
through a storm,
with a sound, a tremor
from a heart, encased
in infinite grains.

Our arms were always
made for a burial,

in heaving hope's feeding rope
over a cliff, towards flooded ruins,
representing a dream,
never washing away
blue from green.