Modern Romanticism

A constant streak
where breaths get released,
pushing seeds out into
a field, for their
decided deliverance.

Light will be ours,
out on this great expanse.
We were overwhelmed,
while we were desperate,
to keep emptying
our shelves, of stories,
of our enemies,
our clouds.

We mean to embrace
a time, in renewal,
reborn to never rewind
our lives back into
surviving in those landscapes
that burned in a fever.

To approach the other,
to gather together
pleasant thoughts -
a paradise, in a former,
embittered desert,
means to make
what we once found
to be impossible.

Love needs no shape,
no drawing of its place,
when we are a puddle
of shimmering tears
that no longer freeze.

We are to be moving
on this gliding pathway.

We are to be living
after we've consumed
the warmest remedy.