Modern Romanticism

Wandering backwards
to a detail I can barely
even consider,
when all that's ahead
is the white of endless clouds,
accompanying the thunder
of what I want to abandon.

You will be waiting for me,
in the pain, among the grains,
writing letters for me
to understand, though I
keep letting it all escape.

You continue to take
these feelings into your
unshielded mind,

while I continue to remake
these thoughts in this wide,
flowering landscape.

I can still these hands,
quivering in the warmth,
when it's winter inside.
Or I can let go of what
wilts these fingers
into bowing to destiny's
indomitable shape.

Your instilled memory
has created a border
for me to never leave
these webbings,
this lack of resolution
to not bereave.