Half a dream come true,
while in our sleep, we taste blue,
we drink this ocean to be
a desert, from its blanketing coloring
to a place for burning sand
into mirrors, unending.
What a time to run dry
sanity’s disembarking flow.
What a time to abandon tears
upon miles of hourglass,
a length of time to be
tied to that cruelest necessity.
A love this grand, branded
within infertile sand,
for we are, in all our sighing
keeping our eyes watching
what we’ve kept from sinking.
Merciless, to not let
another pair of hearts to drown,
funneling hope into a reflection
where faces are rowing
towards each other,
with holes in their eyes,
leaking a needless sunrise.
Waking up to see a sunset
having blackened, having quickened
a slowed realization,
as we face more of our bruised feet,
than a somber truth we cannot believe.
Whatever we’re holding has vanished,
before our sights are ever adjusted,
our hearts become accustomed
to this final hour.
Modern Romanticism 