Modern Romanticism

Love listens,
as debris is spread
from a fire,
on that's as undying
as it's desperate
to keep you curtained
under dark clouds.

I'd love to restrain it,
just as I'd love to
be your breath that speaks
sweeter words, out from
a pair of unfrozen lips,
no longer muted.

You ought to be able
to see the sunlight,
grasping a glimpse
of how well-versed
such recurring memories
keep you bluffing.

You ought to be able
to build your own ship,
never to step too close
to go overboard.

I want to rewrite
what's seemingly
forever engrained
on lines as long as
shadows have grown.