Modern Romanticism

Roped to a slope,
pour it down.
It will fill in
countless cracks,
the embittering
faults we collected.

Clean the wound,
before its infection
spreads further
with the same grace
we view within
an ongoing lie
we worship.

Life comes,
it goes upon when
one abandons the will
to reignite its light,
over a face,
within the night.

Love remains,
lingers in the dust,
even after
motion becomes
little more
than a quiver.

We’ve existed,
if just to be reminded
of something to feel,
regardless of what
stays sealed.

Let us be more
than a pride
of endeavors.

Let us be all
that rides on
into forever.