Modern Romanticism

Still in a cusp,

Folded hands that are pressed

Against my expressionless face,

Without a place

To truly set my heart

Where only fields roam, on their own,

Where only oceans run, without the sun.

I hold darkness, close to heart

As idleness is something common

To my emptied Hell,

To my fullest well.

Draining tides come to my side,

Where oceans are lifted

To the nearby skies,

As tears watch the soil, where they may fall,

To raise only the beauty of too many tomorrows.