Modern Romanticism

Sink lower,
beneath a darkened sun.
Let moonlight highlight
this deception
called happiness.

Hear one coward cry
upon a hollow,
spacious ocean.

I’ve been drifting
on starlit waters,
demanding a cure.

Branch scars
like veins,
like naked boughs
in the midst
of winter.

There are no more
letters to send,
seconds to commit to,
while I’m floating
on my blood.

There are no more
years to accept,
silhouettes to reject,
while I embrace disease
in this wreckage.