Modern Romanticism

A punished simplicity
for being true
during times
when a candle
had to die.

I’m counting edges
I’ve brought in
from an ocean
I’ve had to navigate
before it was too late
to be reborn.

Smiling without sincerity
is the weight I released
like an anchor
from a rotting ship,
from a repeated,
deserved nightmare.

Deep in the sleep
of reviewed heartbeats,
I’m looking through
a looking glass.

I’m dreaming
of what I’m conceiving
without such a curse
to tip me over.

I’m believing
there’s unexplored land,
there’s a waiting hand
to take what I give
from a mind
no longer drifting
for its peace.