Modern Romanticism

Rewriting our history
requires more,
more than we want,
than we need,
to discover that fate
is more merciful
than we thought.

Our expressions betray
such pain that doesn’t die
unless we hide
under a curtain
of stark gray.

To be neutral
in the gift of consequence,
within this wide swath,
grants us more blood
to stain our fingers.

We must be honest
not for a crowd,
but for the garden
that begs to burst up,
from entangling thorns.

We can be reminded
that our past
remains a small world,
a forest that waits
to be burned.

We can be reviewed
by a decorated future,
for our souls
no more for wounds
unmended from time.