Modern Romanticism

A foolish criminal,
For I murdered a love,
We had shared with wine and blood,
With sweetness and bitterness,
Among the beauty and the ugliness,
With sugar and sand.

Love should be our Thanksgiving,
A memory we should treasure,
Though, I had murdered it, and left a bird to rot.

I would thank myself,
For being alive,
But, I am nothing but a criminal,
Who had murdered a love,
Who had murdered an emotion,
Where once a face showed every person in sight.

Why is love now a stone?
I had dropped it.
I was too weak to carry it,
Onward, to see the end,
Of the road of pebbles.