If a fall
Into love, had crippled my legs
Then wheel me in your invention
To fire, to the cycle,
The recycled life buried in the mist,
While stone ages
Better than the blood.
If a man
Shall be drunk on his woman,
Kill the bloodstream.
Free-falling
In the same spoiled dream
Given its beginning
When reality was its ending.
Broken bottles
Against ambitious walls.
Some stories are made to lie,
While thirst is quenched
In unending floods,
Blending in bar-tending
The blue of pain
With the red of isolation.
Bury what remains alive,
Within walls,
Beneath oceans.
Inventions ignore the sting.
Intentions do not bring
Anything other than floating forms
Upon oceans, where sorrow sings.
Modern Romanticism 