Modern Romanticism

Unfolding
like blank pages,
stirring during nights
when forgiveness
is just as colorless.

Imagining a sea
to walk the miles,
to not sink beneath
lingering thoughts.

Bound by beliefs
that hurt more
than what I 
can still see.

Burned by what I
can still retrieve,
even when I slumber
under falling rain.

It’s all a battlefield
where stories are retold,
fortunes are abandoned
among rotting flesh.

I have come,
crawling with a breeze
against stained sails,
uniting dreams
with a waking nightmare,
until I become pieces
floating on gray waters.