Under tranquil oceans,
you were left, to be motioned
towards crippled shores.
You wanted another
to melt you off
into another sentence
that never unfolded.
Desiring limping elements
to move on slowness,
to you, among sands.
Wrapping you into concealment,
where weather, binds droplets
in your beaming eyes.
Yearning for hope,
for a star, never abandoning
its dark cradle.
A glimmer of something immaculate
to move you, through voids,
beneath where those shifting tides
are predicted upon when
they’ll tell you to cry.
Your hand falls from a bough
of one, single Autumn tree,
naked, with its leaves
scattered like shredded curtains.
What remains to conceal,
when your heart needs to heal?
A letter, torn off
told you to meet that one
who will grant you
petals, when winter arises.
A stagnant teardrop
never leaving your eye,
becomes a sun that never dies,
never sets where waves crest.
Modern Romanticism 