Modern Romanticism

To your aftermath,
I've left pages
unwritten, while you
keep close to your
sacred passage in history.

Tears should be
buried residue,
rising only when
you reminisce
over things, left behind,
abandoned to remind
your fulfilled mind
of different footprints,
going forward.

When will you gather
your thoughts, in a circle?
When will you welcome
what exists, here?
We've introduced you
to something to celebrate,
while you are content
to be hindered.

You wish to be the one
to be buried, instead of
all that resides in summer's
hidden, swelling glow.

Drugged on winter,
showing your withdrawal
from growth, in the bloom
of colors, more adrift.