Pull tight
eyes that slept the night.
Beneath the tantrum sun,
there is flesh
to trace of our feuds,
to fulfill space
within the nude.
We burn,
scar our eyes
in each other’s wars.
Full, with craze
to turn the delusion,
the faze
into unrelenting reality.
Within the storm,
drawing cracks in the dust.
Within our arms,
folding clouds around
into further tension.
Was it always this dark
when pain is never tamed?
Modern Romanticism 
Nice piece
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