Modern Romanticism

The overreaching shadows
don’t curb the place
of all sounds. They don’t
smear away what lingers
as a whisper, a breath
going wild with the wind.

It’s just as all tones,
all pitches raised, they never
weather themselves with
the face that I see,
the world that I want
to finally disbelieve.

You have stayed,
like a phantom with its
blinding aura,
its structure that
doesn’t ever crash,
even while I am
upon these red,
sore knees.

I carry a heart,
aching from what
touches it,
from what touched it,
to a path where I
decorate the trees,
the shrubs
with your light.

All the birds answer me
with familiar responses,
as all human voices
are heard only
of their expressions,
of emotional resonance.

I’ve gone deaf
to what can be said
in its simplicity.

I cannot see,
without you looking back
in every direction.

These years will go by,
more uncertain
in the countless tears,
than in the seconds
that could be used
to extinguish this fire.