Modern Romanticism

Leaves wash ashore
In each blanketing curve,
Tearing through Neptune's might
By what she represents, in sight.
Her eyes,
Two emeralds, engraved.
Her lips,
Two streaks of paint, gently laid.
Her hair,
The tallest grass, the closest reeds
To curtsy to the passing rowboat.

I am the lie,
Gently of your kind,
Swerving serpent of the oars left behind.

You plot after the plot
Of our storyline,
Dreaming to tears, left to be shot.

Crimson is the trail to your following.
You are close behind,
Leaving me to never mind.
I am what you recall,
The man who must stall
History from erasing our story
To pages bleak in blankness.

You kiss
A petal, that hangs
Like a man's neck
From its stem.

You miss
The remnants to a current time.
My eyes leave waters
For you to count of every drop.