Modern Romanticism

A ghost has grayed
all strands, on a head,
under a shelter,
under clouds, all black,
all raining the steady stream
into cupped hands.

I've held open
white pages, filled with
the stains among memory.
I want to rewrite
what I know
with silver dreams.

A passing breath
from shattered lungs
reuses the old words.

What else can I tell
to turn what's gray
into renewal's day?

What's absent in time,
has already travelled beyond
terminal deadlines.
I've been relieving pain
with stray passages
in a book that records
worlds of yesterday.

I must present a new story
of a life that changed its course
to an avenue of loving display
for all else one can say.