Modern Romanticism

For tragedies,
as serpents
gliding across
your exposed neck,
your heartbeat
gives chase.

Your sighs
lays cities to waste.

Your hopes
are not as lucid
as your fear,
to breed a nightmare,
following you
into the deep end.

Your cries
fuel these floods.

If you continue
to bleed
without grace,
you’ll drown beneath
collected bones,
from a ruined world.

For oceans to cross,
fields to fertilize,
your life
requires motion.

For arms to hold,
bodies to be built,
your sight
requires light.