Modern Romanticism

Tragic turns
cause tears
to come through
a pair of eyes
in the looking glass,
reflecting back,
with all going black,
going gray.

I am always
holding it close,
the fire I want
to keep dancing
for its flicker,
for its entrance
before it fades.

I’ve been here
listening to sounds,
those from a heart
buried in its wreckage,
lost on its voyage
of painful endurance.

I would welcome
a kiss from Heaven,
to soon regain
from what remains,
in the echoes.

I would even bottle
these passing storms,
the summer winds,
to be one to witness
what still moves.

With gold,
there is little
in these hands
to hold.

With grief,
there is much
under these feet
to bury.