Modern Romanticism

Time flew,
while the fear
stayed blossoming,
dragging me through
its sails, its trails,
until I wasn’t aware
of what fell silent.

A promise, a vow
burned into porcelain,
as letters, as shelter
for a heart in its
ongoing yearning.

As long as I loved,
nothing would erode.
But I was bleeding
just as much as I
gave it all away.

I ran out of breath,
allowing air to escape
from cracked lungs.

I rose to the surface,
fleeing far from depth,
saving what was left.

In me, there had been
a landscape, an eternity
of nothingness
I had been cultivating.

Its ruin is her’s,
like its shape
is all for renewal.