Modern Romanticism

Reopened aftermath
comes forth, colorless,
disguised in white,
speckled in scattered,
shadows of clouds
prepared for rain.

Just a mere drizzle
drags a heart back into
a repeated tale.
Faces are remembered,
bodies are embraced
while seeds become
lost in the wind.

A spread of this dust
has fossilized a memory
to be forever etched
onto a half-buried heart.

What to defend against,
when that feeling returns
to stimulate recollection,
to feed anticipation?

I want to be cloudless,
to see the sun with eyes
frozen to its gleam.
I want to stand there,
placing fortune ahead,
soothed from words,
never sterile.

But a simple gesture
to a past, gets relived,
forces one man's mind
into occasional rewind.

I cannot help but to
wish to give this history
a second funeral,
spread about with petals
that commemorate
its persistent presence.