Modern Romanticism

Like your breaths

That grew feeble

With the noose accompanying your neck,

Like the rope was far more embracing

Than ever were my hands

To your waist.

Like time tested tables to turn,

Like love had nothing left to burn

To the ashes we’d pick up

And consume, while our mouths were filled with rot.

Like love had its own sickness

Beneath our flesh,

But, found nothing where it could adore anyone

Else, but itself.

Will we soon drown

Inside our own minds?

Or plead to God, above,

Inside our own hearts?