Modern Romanticism

Flames fall
from water’s tyranny.
We seek shelter
from running streams,
fleeing to a cave
to blind our vision,
to be bound
in our misfortune.

Death resurrects
the thinnest of candles.
They’ll be put out,
together, without the wind
to bring their light high,
above the tide.

We venture for our stones
to become warm marble,
to be the display
of what we did to play
inside our day.

We should cherish
our moment to not matter
to the universe.
For what holds its weight,
like a weeping ghost,
had our hands to craft it.

A semblance of a footstep
going forward
is not to be together,
without disdain.

While we’re doused
in the flood of regret,
we’re unified
by what died.