Modern Romanticism

A waltz
With hands that reach
Towards the hole
Torn from the Earth.
I breathe my dust over a memory
That stays to write fewest litanies
To me, the scribe to my own psalm.

She waits there
With an ocean to call a storm.
She resides there
Across my desperate mile,
Where stares are sinking by the ships that sail
Around beauty's fairest while.

She calls
With lips that can barely skip
Words when they are so clear
To hear.
I draw from my heart
A note that was scrawled, in haste
To taste the lips of a raw moment.

What can I reach for
Across the sea that wakes me?
She is the bliss
I can faintly kiss,
Before one dies away
From my sorry arms.