Modern Romanticism

I’m waving the flag,
the one that invites in
the white side of my
faceless surrender.

I keep pouring on
the gasoline for the blaze,
to feed what will not
repeat on its own.

One more word
to the speech,
for the revival
of a collapsed home,
where Hell had always
sought its space.

I am speaking in traces,
building back
the winding shapelessness
where holes are present
to release the sounds
of the enemies of life.

I walk in circles,
carrying folded letters
to send to somewhere
in the middle of nowhere.

I cannot cry enough
to raise my boat,
above depth’s pressure.

I can only hope to
land at an ideal spot
to send a desperate signal.