Modern Romanticism

I sense what we
were made to create,
buried always under
these torrents,
these sounds
that never cease,
that never leave.

Winds come as
destructive whirlwinds,
never what ought
to be that hand
to guide us.

What’s left to believe,
while eyes are always
finding a reason
to flood the fields?

We find that season
where tears are shed
in their splendid array
of decaying colors.

We glisten
in places where spring
is never present,
deciding that silence
gives our whispers
their space.

When will we be
ever immediate,
ever instant
upon abandoning
what keeps us
from embracing
that long mile,
that road for
finding more?