Modern Romanticism

Simpler words
are kept to the back
of your throat,
while you spill rain
from a loose connection
to overhanging clouds.

As dark as your eyes,
you feed them significance,
channeling your volume
into the floods.

The tide comes,
once more.

When will you decide
to set sail?

The dead remind you
to keep living.
Their last breaths
became the wind
to help your ship
beat the waves.

To worship life,
you need to end
your utmost strife.
Disallow your tears
to soak your hands,
but instead the bow
of your vessel
to plow through them.