Modern Romanticism

No more long speeches,
No more long breaks
In the forest, where we take
Turns to reach for the clouds
Gathered,
Then parted
From the circles, they formed.

No more time to talk,
No more time to walk
On in the same direction.
We are so much like the ash that rains
Upon our hands, in the cold.

No more heavy hours,
No more drunken sighs,
No more wilted flowers,
No more senseless goodbyes.
No more, to die for.

We turn upon the same road,
Forming circles with our arms,
As our paths never cross
Upon the walk.

We leave soldiers to die,
People to cry
Their eyes, upon the platter
For our laughter.

We have oceans to fly over,
Leaving our rain to fill it, deeper.