If all, might have been
after that emptiness,
of mourning. If two eyes
had seen, that sapphire,
those dimming skies, becoming
bright, in an aftermath
for one pleasant morning.
If one heart, had felt
its bathing veins, in a puddle,
to drench itself, in what
our fears, never muddled.
I have locked, onto you.
Missiles, cruising over blanketing
seas. I still live, in these currents,
as I hold, onto your hand,
even across, different lands.
You are never dressed,
while you have regressed
further, from me with that
bottle, with our belief, with its
teardrops, to make this bitterness
another source, of our sickness.
A vulnerable, nude depiction
that martyred itself, on loneliness.
Are you exhausted, within
these cold, lifeless winds?
I want to hold you,
though nothing can be
grasped, nor seen.
Modern Romanticism 