Black curtains
were the last
article of our clothing
to burn.
Though, they
retained
the same discoloration.
A hundred flakes,
a trail of smoke,
they became.
One blank page
invites us
to walk, to dine,
to leave behind
footsteps that show
wandering souls.
One wave
from an invisible hand,
will let us dream,
guiding us onto
a sincere river
to a calm ocean.
Rebuilding a bridge,
made possible
as a morning’s sunrise
lets us see
what to believe.
Unmasking minds,
sinking into the salience
that drives our sails
beyond a storm
that lashed our hearts.
Modern Romanticism 
Leave a Reply