Modern Romanticism

Renewed debate
with a tragedy
that keeps our forms
in the middle.
We mediate our tears
that keep arriving
to flood our colorless room,
upon midnight gloom.

We wish to be free
from what we are stagnating.
A pain that cleans itself
within brutal tempests,
as we walk countless footsteps,
standing at the same time
as we are falling.

Holding close our hands
into a grasp or an airtight prayer,
suffocating hope into a dream.
We reach for Heaven,
being presented with thunder
that rolls over where we watch
to be what we'll long remember.

Covering our eyes
with thinnest fabric,
though our emptiness leaks
in infinite raindrops,
soaking an infertile garden.

Undoing this disguise,
as our fingers trace a line
in sands of our favorite hour.
Those moments when we
look beyond exhausted belief.