Modern Romanticism

It’s been our world,
favorable, intersected
with depleting strength,
tying ourselves
to the fog.

We’ve lost the rush,
kept close to the loss
of our years,
at the hands
of our tears.

Those mornings,
or our mourning
have been dragging
these shadows on,
giving us a path
to walk on.

Our journey
stretches further,
along with marks
on our battered,
bruised flesh.

Our eyes
linger over
what’s salient,
what’s unsaved.

It’s a desperate time
when being wounded,
without anything
to forever treasure.

The night is our space
to kneel down for,
to surrender
while being against
the moon’s pale sight,
the frailest light.