Modern Romanticism

None blend well
with the dust,
with what withers
when a hand
is released.

Hoarding echoes,
altering chapters
keeps a soul standing
on a premature,
shallow grave.

For one’s water
to stay under fire,
they had to shout
to hide their tragedy
from spring’s purity.

For one’s fire
to beat their flesh,
they had to dissolve
into their streams
from blind eyes.

A vessel must sail
over rising waves,
removing its anchor,
approaching a light.

Pain’s a seedling
to birth a world,
beginning at a page,
at white sands.