Lately
when miles turn
into missiles,
when wrong directions
become correct mistakes.
We slip on reflections,
becoming broken glass
in mirrored hearts.
A kiss of rapid splendor,
dropping repeated words
from weathered,
parched lips.
We thirst for not giving enough
to raise a smile from oceans.
We pour salt against
cracked skin, quaking sin
in that desirous mood.
Grieving in this craving
to keep falling overboard,
to send anchors to cease
a sunrise of heartbeats.
We want darkness to hurt us,
while hoping rain deserts us.
Dried, inside of veins,
holding this rope, these reins
with skeletal hands.
Modern Romanticism 
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