Forego this.
These clothes were bandages.
This bed
Has been our grave,
Laid to rest in each other’s petals,
Our tears, –
But no rain will reach us.
Buried
And cremated,
Shutting a casket’s lid
Over our closed eyes.
A cover,
A story
Concealed, without memory.
We forget, in bliss.
Death reaches us, upon the kiss.
Touch of Iscariot,
With denial that love, from above
Bled us dry.
We burn into stars,
Lost among infinity.
Tasteless,
Joyless,
As your eyes led us
Towards this direction.
Wrap your arms
Without knowing why.
Pray for another night
When we cannot cry.
A disformed hope,
As we keep holding.
A word rotting under our eyes,
Centered in endless lies.
Modern Romanticism 