Modern Romanticism

Another thing to
see, coming to
blatant history.
Another comma written
in the letter, near the letters
where the pile is just
a mound of sand
where time would float,
above the grains,
among the pain.

White-out, the refrain,
the telltale existence
of a never-ending reunion
between a sun and a moon.
When light has curtains,
a blindness occurs,

horror begins,
frailty stirs.

Outstretched palms,
open eyes. What are we,
in this limitless vastness?
An ocean loses us,
a shoreline remembers us
where our names are written
in careless scribbles.

Rebirth. A crude reminder
of where we belong,
desiring another set of eyes
to contemplate our helpless states,
on the white, where we are
always receding.