Modern Romanticism

Mourning sings aloud
what I've missed, who I miss
while I've been telling this
broken tune of a heartbeat
to keep its purpose
floating ever forward.

Morning has passed,
entangled in the strings
of a net of safety.

There goes the sun,
dying in its fall
to one more overlooked,
disfavored day.

If tears can reach
what has been buried,
what's beyond reach
for a pair of hands,
I hope to grow
what words cannot
hope to sow.

I hope to birth colors
on a landscape, one to call
an unfading display.

I hope to extend light
upon a tower's height,
where memories
will stretched shadows
on gleaming meadows.