Picture how
Final terrors
Were warm beginnings
For the faces that did laugh,
At the end.
Picture now
The stories caught at angles,
Bleeding for miles across
Shapeshifted understanding
For the forests that melted
Whispers into glades.
Emptiness in the hollow well,
For no cement could encrust
A depiction of her fall.
I still wish
For the dawn to come
Even as the rose petals fall
Into burning fields.
Place her
As she would be corrected,
Standing at sadness’s ending,
With disuse to each discarded
Ray of her happiness.
She was all to the touch
Of forever’s bite,
While enemies call to unknown
Parts of the sand,
Burning blame into everlasting shame.
Modern Romanticism 