Modern Romanticism

Sunset's absence,
as morning has turned
into acute mourning.
I've lived here,
believing in everything
that held a space,
that had a place
in symmetry.

Who cries, what dies
when nothing but soil
is left to be buried?

A shoulder expecting
sounds of weeping
has disappeared,
while it keeps
the smears
from the last
invitation.

I've needed to know
when it will snow.
I've needed to believe
in a path, where footprints
can always represent
a hopeful exhalation.

I've needed to see
where I can spread,
can raise something
from sown seeds.

Pages will need
to be torn out
from the final,
fatal chapter.

Continuation must
come after restoration.
from felling this tempest
disallowing remission.