There’s mimicry,
among this collected imagery.
I pull in, these waters –
they’ve been reminding me
how much an ocean has grown,
one of which, I set sail
upon a form of countless holes.
Who opened fire?
Who let me sink,
with only two hands
to lend me, this rope?
For too long,
stumbling on answer
after unearthed answer,
and still
somehow, those words
were speaking
through their concealing,
dishonest filth.
A white flag,
like a mother with her
impulse, to console,
to pay her heart
at a toll – to roll her child,
cold and lifeless,
in an immaculate bedsheet.
How many times
had she, said goodbye?
Modern Romanticism 