Hands to the eyes.
Signals to the tragedy
forwarded with lights.
We are blinded
while crying for no shoulder
to stop us.
Collision is inevitable.
Winter is inconceivable
for what will be written in
snow or ashes.
White-out in the debris.
Onward
we will not stop.
The brakes never work
when hearts do not even yield.
We were produced from thin air.
We will remain damaged
on the highway with water,
not tears
to clean away
the contents of our hearts.
Modern Romanticism 