Modern Romanticism

I sever disconnection
to bring back
an invisible line
to surge me.

I surrender the shell
I’ve called home,
forgetting the echoes
that kept me ashore.

Here comes a ship
lost without its lighthouse,
hoping to find shelter
in the presence of another.

Just as lost,
just as wanting
of a face to funnel
a reflection through.

It becomes unchanging
even in the fall,
even among the leaves
of autumn’s age.

Were we dreaming this
before the sun came up?

Or were we through
with ways to come down?