Sometimes, when I
hang a word from a heartstring
where there can be scenery
to your lingering footprints,
I retrace the silent steps
that bled the old breath.
The divisive fear
that lingers here
in the ruin where we
were brought near
in love,
within sight of harrowed eyes
and moonlit drear.
Here we are, to kiss
the same salient surroundings,
adorned in the rubies
of thrones and thorns, combined
in the fields of filth and grime.
Living in my own memory
to a time, when
all our skin was makeshift blankets
to keep us warm, to label our secrets
as fossils in the open air.
Each time, where I
hold back the thought,
there are diseases spread
throughout this form,
never the land.
At all times, will I
keep the hatred for another day?
Boiling tongue, with symptoms
that keep coming
with no one to pray.
Modern Romanticism 