Modern Romanticism

An ocean's waves
lap at our feet,
feeling what our hearts
have long craved,
as we stagger
to fill our cups.

Limping onward,
walking these circles,
these reaching ripples
that decrease
the length to their
trembling stretch,
the deeper we sink.

We must surrender
whatever we remember
about our failure
to cusp reality
in a tear-stained
hourglass.

It will bring us up,
even if that is to
a flaming noose.

It might end us,
or it might revive us
to see a yearning sun.

If we keep crying
without ever trying
to leave our story
under autumn leaves,
our oceans will be
what we'll forever be.

Just two drifting vessels
who don't recognize
the limit to a mile
we cannot cross.