Waters rose, with the breath of the wind
wilting the shore, hoarding the petals.
waking my eyes to the surrendering sun
clashing at the fall
to twin leaves that were on their path,
apart from the run,
a stride towards hearts undone.
Every fall of an aching chest,
rusted metal pours its red
to freeze this back, over again.
When winter is nude,
covering the sentences far too tight
that were drawn in the sand,
beneath the heavy hail of porcelain,
where leaves were dried –
Love is reiterated where it died
in the flames, within twisting sin.
Write me down on the longest line
where secrets are yet to be kept.
Breathe me full, keep me deep
in your hands as you sleep.
Waters had risen upon the melting white,
stinging the eyes, entering the night
flooding shrouds upon my sight.
Even, among odd love –
brought from beneath, fallen from above.
How much blood to lose,
before breath is lost at the noose?
Still, the ravens explore
the sight of a man,
who implored the skies to never rise
before he had left
his shallow triumphant state,
at the open door
to be sentenced to a distant hell,
as all secrets were there to sell.
Modern Romanticism 