Drops against a stone.
Sanded down, dulled into
shapes of hulls. We plod
on, with our eyes,
always sinking.
Drops against
an overturned rock.
Sands for hands that
carve ropes around
burning throats. Shores
ignite in all things we
have ever adored,
ever did abhor.
Anchors. Ruins, made
from cannons to emotions,
from hounding oceans.
Love came with its treasure,
a heart pieced together,
soon becoming
shade, under weather.
Dust for these eyes. Sweep
our sand upon us, back into
concealing sleep. Both sides to
our distance has made us
explore demons.
Two shades. Our clouds
blind our eyes, against sunlight,
against our hearts to be combined,
unified, within our night.
Modern Romanticism 