Reversed water sweeping your tears
back beneath, back to sleep.
Oh, how I incline to recline
your form upon deserts,
to take the stones where you
lost raindrops.
Bold in the dark,
raven atop the waters.
Your tears, a curtain.
Your fingers, bars to a sideways cage.
Uncounted scars, same with stars,
gleaming as gunshot wounds
upon the soft calmness
of one devilish sea.
You gain the grain,
dissolving into empathy.
You sleep among vast agony.
Sad woman
with face, hidden in temptation,
in resignation.
Form of a whore, torn to the floor.
Shattered glances
become scattered dances,
with sadness sending signals
to vacant lighthouses
for no one, with no sun
to speak the return
to warmth.
Modern Romanticism 