Modern Romanticism

The closest tie
put together
drowns,
without a sound.

Without a clash,
without a trace
to link back
to fertile residue,
I’m left with a gash,
a looted stash.

Nothing screams
under this tide,
while I’m following
pale ghosts
to their sacred,
harmonious
highway.

I nourish me
back to children’s
deafening laughter,
bled from thin,
dark-blue veins.

I rekindle me
over to a sunrise
I must have missed,
while revisiting
an eternal storm.

Morning is the call
back to gravity.