Modern Romanticism

I start to see the white patterns of ivory

Blanketed by shades of corruption,

As I see the sun eclipsed by the moon,

As I see the world has found new comfort in a bleak erosion

Of truth being laid firm on the world's defeat.

I sense that Death has remembered its own presence,

As I sense that lies are for people's consumption.

How often does the world bleed

Ills to the naked stream, where fires are the lacing

Of memorable dreams?

Those who seem to enjoy their dancing upon the corpses of the dead

Seem to not ever be fed

The truth that would starve them into being plentiful,

As their stomachs wither with the makeshift crops,

As their eyes burn with the sight of the sun,

As their faces melt with the touch of that very truth

That will not ever leave their ears.