Modern Romanticism

While no one dreams,
while no one else screams
in the nightmares, come loose
once connected to ruins
scattered in entrenched thoughts - 

I am elsewhere
in the fields of constant reverie
where rivers flow like veins.

Born in the blue
conscious spark of desire.
Funerals are black, when we dream
when we fall back to escape
into the thinnest void.
A hurried kiss upon the porcelain lips,
a statue carved out of our heart.

I am here, searching
for the last shell on a shore.
In each season, neither petals nor
autumn leaves will fall,
while ears are looking up.

I do not fade, as I view the white
hourglasses, painted black
with the blue of blood from unopened bruises,
unopened letters.

Red letters, dark complexions
of ink, with hearts engraved
before the grave absorbs each teardrop.

While no one dreams
in the vacant night.
While no one screams
inside the light.