Modern Romanticism

As cold as stone,
as old as this way
that eyes are lit
as if dreams
were fulfilled,
in the rush of
flowing streams.

As if grief might be
all that it takes
to find true company.

I've lived small,
walking down halls
where portraits
are removed,
to be replaced
with something
that moves.

A solid color,
an isolated blue,
an ocean
where dripping dew
drifted that distance,
to become a thing
called time.

It all goes by
with all that dust
lifted in fingers,
brought down
with hands.

It all comes through,
on its constant rush.
I've been living through,
drenched in moments,
burning forests
to get to the roots.

I've been wanting
while I've been waiting
for this sadness
to make itself at home.

I've been bleeding
all I can undo, while I
hope that tears are petals
for answers to fly.