Modern Romanticism

Walking in, waking within
all that drives this rain,
this melting wax.

You've been waiting
for one second, in which
you could let go
of what you've been
removing beneath
a waning sun.

You've been standing
under arriving stars,
a void full with its share
of countless signals,
gleaming flares.

Walking close,
bringing down
a liquid form
into a mass of pages,
to be stained in ink,
erased with tears.

Sheets conceal us,
drown us, but reveal us
in all we dare to be,
as sinners under a sea
where our fever
receives no remedy.