Modern Romanticism

Isolated. Suffering a
constant withdrawal,
as I am dragged
down to mother earth.

I wish to hold
all these fluttering,
repeating memories
in golden hands.

I want to crash
this form of mine
into the depth
of a crystal ocean.

I'll see all sides
I once ignored.
I'll believe in the white
I've always wanted to
keep coloring.

I'll believe in what I
can erase into its peace,

though I'll desire
another hand to write
what I want to relieve
all bitterness, in a mouth
that tasted the rain.

Who can I be
in a washed-out mirror,
dreaming in the void,
shivering in the warmer days
of the end of winter?