Modern Romanticism

Like autumn’s children,
we were scattered,
brought to life
through weeping eyes,
not quiet goodbyes.

We fell to want
to be raised,
to cross rivers
formed from blood
we both shed.

We took hold
of offered hands,
loosening a cry
from open lips
that cannot speak.

For feelings to burn,
changing from ivory
to a spectrum’s collection.

We’re splashed
with a wave of colors,
rejoining on the same side.

Onto vast fields,
wind has kept us
from straying too far
from those seeds
we must reap.

We won’t hurl dirt
onto growth
for too long.

We’ll see sunlight
for as long
as a door is held open.