Modern Romanticism

I have tasted a sight.

I have tasted the current of blight

Running from your empty mouth.

Where once spilled sighs,

Where once spilled the sounds from

Joyful cries,

I must now whisper a tired goodbye,

A farewell to nothing but a lie,

An unchanging disease

In a changing form.

It kills,

And you would never.

Lost upon the mile,

I allow you to drop for a while

From my arms, to the pile

Of lonesome memories.