No more need, no other time
in history's disfigured face
will our lives walk a straight line
without folding upon presented signs.
We have torn up pathways,
departed from arms, sideways
into another permanent birth -
where we are discontent, to another's worth.
Paved roads, white-out on the divide
between memories, upon the wounds we hide.
Lesser to be another
victim's burial to our mark
in their arms, for their aching heart.
Desperate signs, times desperate for our halt
upon the space to our crime, outlined in chalk.
Feuding without the fade -
to be removed from the space -
where we linger for clipboards, for pens,
for eyes to examine our end.
Recreate the scene, damage the next
on the path for beautiful kisses.
Relieve the encaged soul on the closest breast.
Can you burn faster, as the eye misses
the part where you disappoint?
Readers in the shadows, before the suspense
finds the autumn tree of ashen answers.
Radiant one, while I find your shell
encasing our tale, echoing our Hell.
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Modern Romanticism 