A moment of bleeding
palms, onto sands,
hands into outstretched shores,
dropping salt into a wound,
carving into rivers
what were those unset letters,
going downstream
with the unheard cries
adding more to the flood
of words.
What rose?
From a horizon,
a line that broke, on a promise,
on a signature never written,
because that heart
that came close
bled, on an ocean
where yearning was everyone’s error,
everyone’s memorialized terror.
In wanting of a time
when sunrise was our time
to come up with the fog
that would never be
the confusion
that keeps us in sheets,
that keeps us in scores
where sorrow
would be the song to a future
colored in a fabled gray.
A fairytale,
pictured on a setting
where caresses are letting
emotions become
the ocean’s motion,
and nothing could surround us,
as the fog of our clouds,
where sadness comes to shroud
our uniting eyes, in its crowd.
Modern Romanticism 