Modern Romanticism

Our skin sold us

For the mud of graves.

Our flesh melted off

Bones as white as the clouds,

Upon those dry days

Without sounds.

Chained in the ways of death,

Chained, though without breath

For our eyes can only see ahead,

Having not viewed below

To our feet, where hands grasp us, as gods.

We loved without flame,

With only the coldness of distance and winter,

Our voices speak across valleys,

Though the words are dead.

Chained, as they are,

For the world could not hear them,

Except for us.

The coldness,

The rotting lips

That are curled to point towards the mud, below,

Among the clouds that watch, forming eyes that mock us,

To know

That love did go.

We never grasped what we wanted,

Never spoke what we meant,

Because our song is gone

From where it was strong.