Answers. Reconnect
our surrender. If we keep
summer, drawn over,
as blank pages, we have drowned
in our thunder.
We have left, our eyes
stinging for each other’s stare.
Our passion rises,
our currents swell.
Oceans have moved on,
when fires have died.
We had left, our tongues
at that frozen word,
exploring doubt, in a subtle
shout. One crude sign, upon
a least driven road.
A single point to yield,
before finding out
what we concealed.
Imagery burns at
that sentence, at summer’s
autumn, where leaves
are blank pages.
Reconnect that hourglass,
a figure, for nude design.
One vulnerable clash
between hearts, at a flash.
Modern Romanticism 