Modern Romanticism

If they have killed you,

Due unto a disease,

I will kill them.

I will send them running to the Earth

And escape through the ashes,

Down to the corridors of Hell.

I will send them chasing demons

For merry love-making.

Those demons

Are of their own kind.

The same faces,

The same traces

Of the same scents.

I will track them down,

Slay them into debris,

Along with their homes,

Their hopes,

Their futures,

As love has nothing but burning wings

Upon my back.