Modern Romanticism

She's been redrawn
into her familiar shape,
wings no longer
disheveled and weathered,
while two black eyes
are ignited with sunlight.

She's perched upon
someone's shoulder,
someone who we know
never needed to pray
for her to enter
this inevitable way.

She's singing from one
gleaming beak, notes from
a pair of unclogged lungs,
once suppressed,
now here revealing
all meaning undressed.

She'll never ail,
because she'll only sail
on wings of ivory,
speckled in gold.

She'll forever be
what we all intend to be,
during days we are
unimpeded by hope.