When we check
if there’s a pulse,
we might act
on impulse,
or we can,
as we should,
tend to the light
on our shoulders.
It’s been dancing
to branch its streams
of naked gold
over our bodies.
It’s been taking notice
to two hearts
combined to be heard
from delicate whispers.
We’ve been surviving
on an ailing stalemate,
finding defeat
beyond mere corners,
behind an infinite numbers
of sprawling walls.
Our blooming remedy
will take us
up into Heaven,
outside of Hell,
seeking warmth
not from a fever.
Our cure
will be fueled
from the resolve
that tells our fortune,
that speaks for
our former indecisions.
Modern Romanticism 
Leave a Reply