Modern Romanticism

At long last,
we’ve neared it,
not reaching it,
never to take it in
our burned palms.

It was the air
we began to breathe,
seeing that sight
of crystal sands.

We didn’t get there,
falling into the fade,
the weather above
seeking shelter
on our face.

Swept overboard,
losing control,
starving our hearts
before the final feast
we begged for.

It was the fire
we began to feel,
not for its warmth,
not from its light.

Stillness has a shape
to stand there,
to watch over us,
mocking us
with its laughter
as the rain.

Clouds are gathering
with lightning
that flashes,
that freezes
because of uncertainty
being the aftermath.