Modern Romanticism

A desperate urge
to reform the formless
state of a shape,
brings it in,
corners it under
Heaven's light.

Newborn, if it can
awaken from a stillborn
distancing from one
bright necessity
to be what it should,
lets me, to be
who I will.

Rewrite the death,
let it roam across
the fertile shorelines
of a beautiful,
startling paradise.

But I've buried what
cannot be uncovered
in its cradle
of darkest earth.

Wide-eyed, I might be,
when I look up to
the mother of creation.

Chaos changed the way
it was meant to be,
until green was sent away.

Fallen leaves,
an expanse of ashes
causing soulless,
discarded messages
to be left behind.

It can never
be that texture
of either porcelain
from a heart,
or of simple paper
for simpler verse.