Modern Romanticism

Her mind
Resides
In the green, upon my eyes.
Her fields
Flower
With the dew, upon each leaf
Crossing plains,
Hovering upon mountain slopes,
To drag back down
The wilderness in the empty sounds.

Her blood
Is my course,
My journey through my own veins.
For my sails are tattered,
Washed
By the storm's endurance.

Love reaches a broken shore
To hold hands with safety.
Yet,
When blood is to layers,
As layers are too swift,
I will crash.

I drink
What cannot quench me,
What does
Leave me thirsty.