The dream.
Our dream. Our eyes are matched, upon the surface.
The walk. My steps are not from the cross, not from the Virgin Mother. I cannot find a way to take this journey. I am as poor as these grains of sand, upon this beach where I stand.
He cannot press his foot onto the water, finding stable and balanceable steps. He wants to, however. He has tried to do this. His appearance is foolish, while he attempts it, again. I want to walk. I want to find something to make a moment truthful. I yearn. This heart yearns. His heart yearns, aches, and threatens to break to turn the ocean to a bright crimson. His heart is a tomb with a biblical corpse, shaped as Lazarus, distorted as Christ. It wants to be the last wave this gleaming sea will crash upon the shore. His heart does not want to say farewell to a thought. His mind is stubborn, telling itself to survive when the heart means to drown it.
If he could shout, he would receive no echo. His voice is but a cry or a whisper, delicate as a newborn and feral as an abandoned child. A man as him lives, if only to cover his face with bedsheets, wanting to eclipse out the sickness. The sunlight against him, and if he stands forever upon this naked shore with its lain beige curtains of sand, he will discover each grain darkening along with his complexion.
Perhaps his sickness will flourish, if he continues himself to this stance of a statue. For he no longer attempts the non-human feat of exploring the ocean with the steps for something either to be revived or reborn, as he stays to stare at a broken image. It is a reflection, stated by him to be matching with someone else, though now remains as his. It is frozen, here. If I walk, I will crash through. I will drown in my heart. I want to get rid of the water. I want to erase it, but that will make my reflection disappear.
If he drowns, he will disappear, not his reflection. He will stare into himself, all the way to the bottom of his heart.
Modern Romanticism 