Modern Romanticism

Sprinkling rain water
from an open heart,
hoping for something else
to be reaped from what
I've sown, in these ruins,
where whispers dwell.

I'm drinking remnants
from what I've saved
during idle moments,
ones where I've collected
all the blessings that I
was encouraged to bring.

It's out of this isolation
that I cannot admit
to what I've delayed,
lost on an ocean
I've believed was clay.

There is nothing to make
from these flooded,
unwelcoming surroundings,
as I'm betraying color,
filling holes with white.

If I've ever been tired,
it's because of yesterday
when I did not disclose
to a speaking mirror
what told me to close
chapters into a fade.

I should have admitted,
instead of abiding by
a curse, one that I keep
sustaining me, as it
engrains me.