Those same stamps
to time’s disheveled face.
Those present waters,
here to level our entrances
to uncovered surfaces.
Waist around, with a hand about
your form in a blood-red ocean,
with a kiss for our journey.
Awake to undertake
these moments where we
discover hope before its door
closes a broken dam.
We are meant to flood
a land in our radiant blood,
to water driest soil
in deserted love.
We flow a direction,
a mile, ahead to vow
that we, with written letters
can seal hearts in tow.
We taste breezes, in selection
for where skin becomes cleaned.
A face that cried, helpless,
until we made it seen.
Our reflection with surfaces
of sameness, to blood, to our flood
where anchors are swept to shore.
Fewest words are left
to speak from, as fullest hearts
never leave, never left.
Modern Romanticism 