Live,
Breathe,
And do not leave,
While the waters still wash us
In perplexing floods.
No comprehension
For the sadness,
As tears begin to drizzle
From Heaven,
In its dust and clouds.
Walk within
The curtains that cover us.
Idle, in our travesties,
While blue is the storm,
As red
Is the deliverance,
As we wield the thorn
Speaking through vessels.
Contours
Are the lines we’ve drawn
For our forms, in the earth.
We bend down
To conceal,
Everything we aimed
To reveal.
We bleed
Red, through the hourglass,
While eyes white out
Our name, among the rocks,
As a canvas
Speaks riddles through the tears
A painter had left.
We are the faces,
Made through, as traces,
Caught through
As flies,
Stilled in the web,
Cocooned,
In the lies.
Modern Romanticism 