Modern Romanticism

What a world, to find ourselves locked within.

A mutual discovery of the same darkness

We both breathe.

For there are only tears in our mouths

For us to eat.

Puddles gather between our toes,

Weights hang off each strand atop our aching heads,

And we lean forward

To receive cold comfort, cold solace,

From what we’ve hurled down,

Being a blanket, embroidered in the threads of sadness.

Each tale

Has been weaved by hands, without care.

But, we still do share

Each other’s loss, in time’s apart,

Where only the smallest twigs with each quivering leaf

Makes any subtle sound.