Modern Romanticism

When the tears stop flowing

From the two sponges kept in sockets

Floating atop lakes,

Nestled before a mind,

Where I gave up the sight for life,

And the only vision before me

Is a fleeting one.

I saw her form,

Bleeding upon the shore.

Shells were fleeing

From their mother.

She was the broken one,

With the waves lapping against her skin,

With tears softly flowing from a pair of delicate orbs.

To where I lay a kiss?

It is upon each of her fingertips,

As I come for her,

As I come to take her

In arms meant for something to wield.