Where, the Hopeless Romantic?
by Odin Roark


Here, where the roll from my pillow reveals the rising sun beside me.
There, where our hands and arms toil to make glow the dank chores of everyday
So that full moons will always rise
And clouds will always be ignored.

Even as hope and despair crowd the horizon for dominance,
So too will the strains of a saxophone
Fill the drifting air and push away all doubt.

Where, the hopeless romantic?

Everywhere.

For nothing is as it seems,
But is as one wishes it.
Wars and poverty will always be,
But scrims of the mind can make soft the reality of the day.

For just as shards of broken dreams will pierce if allowed,
And attachment to past disappointments
Will always cry out for attention,
Allowing the smell of gardenias,
The sound of pinecones falling upon soft needles,
The sight of ocean's foam cascading upon us
While tasting the salt of forever's forever.

The touch of passion's grace
Will always free the hopeless romantic
To know of tomorrow's waiting
For yet further tomorrows,
Embraced with the effervescent
Now of love.