Modern Romanticism

It’s intimate,
but not inanimate,
since you still bleed
from that wound
long turned black.

It’s your soul
that deserves a story
told over ashes,
shouted at a shoreline
where vastness crashes.

Can you keep thriving,
being what you are?

You wilt without color,
being deprived,
while drowning in shelter
flooded with the residue
of bereaving eyes.

Can you keep representing
an echo that won’t fade?

If love finds you,
once more, in this storm,
would your trembling flesh
find its route outside?

There’s nothing more
that the universe can do,
as you stand there,
naked, with wrinkling skin,
growing old,
while your screams
become more somber.