Modern Romanticism

Let it enter in,
without falling out
with it, on its leash,
without losing touch
of what will drag
our tired bodies,
by being unable to
redirect our hearts,
replace the hurts.

There’ll never be
something more,
nor someone else
who’ll be there,
above all else.

The feelings that swell,
the waves that crash
add to the puddles
with ripples created
at the slightest breath.

Let us be closer
to a rhythmic beat,
to the warmth,
to the tears
that remain countless,
as we remain fruitful
in the endurance
of upheaval,
of ordeal.

It’s the ride, the rush
that gets us through
the sluggish days
when our thoughts
are drying the ways,
the tricks for our sanity
to keep its color
from draining.

It’s the rose, the red,
that hauls us beyond
the moments we dread
to ever return to us.