Modern Romanticism

I placed a flag
that had never been
stained with white.
All its colors
figured themselves
into our enclosed,
fixed vision.

We wanted what
we believed could be
a dream brought forth,
brought into our
shared bubble.

A ship sank,
waves were our
constant reminder
of what we eventually
began to blanket.

In the white,
under surrender's
immeasurable height,
we were drawing
our forms, like dead,
rotting fish on the sand.

Soon, we were fleeing
the tameless truth,
sterilizing our hands
to keep covering
our frightful wounds.

We were never in Heaven,
holding agony within
scarred palms, ones that
were nailed to a cross,
one that burned
for our symmetrical,
inevitable loss.