Hope is a rose,
peeling its petals, empty
until exhaustion provides
the rush, the gust
turning a clock's hands
until that final grain
completes the shore.
Wide, with expansive
barrenness, in its white
canvas-like presence.
What might I be able
to draw with these
heated fingertips?
What might I ever want
when light rises from
cherished horizons?
Drinking the sadness
into suffocation,
as I rub these eyes,
from collected,
unwanted residue.
You are still here
to sink me, to fill me
with an ocean's blue.
What might I gain,
when loudness is all
that ever speaks?
What can I hear,
after I am deafened
by your echo?
Modern Romanticism 
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