Modern Romanticism

Baring yourself.
A return to history's
sunken roots,
as I condemn the action
of no consideration
of what you could be,
outside the ruin.

Believing not
in yourself, under a light
that transfers its clarity
of all wrongs you committed
for this existence of yours
to its solace,
an unsafe return.

I'd label the spaces
where you'd drown,
as I'd give another gleam
to a road you might take to,
outside of all that leaves you.
I'd do this, if you will
release this gnarled hand.

You bleed into waters,
for reflections to be loved
in its design of red,
in its grave for the dead.

Drain your form, even more,
if that will let you see
all that you have failed to be,
embraced in flashing storms.

Be as crude as you need to,
if that will, one day
introduce the best of you.