Modern Romanticism

Rowing time uphill,
believing in the best
of words, spoken when
I've stood in those fields.
Lightning flashes
more in my heart,
than in the sky.

Watering eyes,
driving one more sun
to cease its sleep.
Shaking hands,
releasing breaths
upon welcoming light.

I fold the pages
of my story
over the lessons
I still have yet to learn,
battling this suffering
until I can be
a soldier coming home.

Bleeding hands,
dancing to the morning
after the longest rest.
A burning throat
swallows the air,
rejects a rope.

I am who I can be,
wandering either in
shallow waters
or coldest space.