Too many trips of guilt.
On the way through blank stars
where we signal our avoided hearts,
starting our dream in the void.
Too many lessons of spite.
We wait for our kisses to break oceans,
to break the barriers of time
for love to follow.
Of matter and what matters
inside funereal depiction.
Nights drawn to crystal tears
fallen onto bloated flesh,
while leaves twist in the company
of dancing hips, grimaced lips.
In sorrows, in joys,
a love is born into a flower,
destined to die, when
it cannot hold up mourning’s
dewdrops.
Too many moments being seated.
We are following the sunset,
meaning to be drowned in arms
where childish innocence dwells.
We don’t matter
where our eyes were fading.
We are not the matter,
following ashes to the lake.
Modern Romanticism 