Modern Romanticism

Careful, in our tragedy
to comprehend a sunset
in undying clarity.

Let us unify
one speck of dust
with the next, in line,
to salvage absent sentences
among letters, within lines
that were burned,
that were abandoned.

I do not want this storm
to be an endless reminder,
as the moon comes in
between bleak clouds,
presenting us with a mirror
reflecting all that has
been exhaled from
wordless lips.

Bleeding out, for black earth
to become white sands.
In that release, we find
that we've raised a garden
made out of hues,
a flood of hope.

If, once before, we were
two oceans, divided,
we must undergo a conjoining
to match what we didn't know
had been possible to grow.