The Hell we both faced.
Those fires we had to blame
to believe something could rise
from rinsed hands, from stains.
We washed clean our eyes
to see somewhere different,
other than solid deceit,
forming on liquid defeat.
We tore our life, to blend
barricades, for arms to send
a sickness this worthless,
a love this senseless.
Are you colder? Here, I
scream out from lungs
that breathed in your vapor,
your words in that letter.
Where do I go to find
a bitterness, a warmth?
An anger that pulls me aside
to present a needless pride.
A face full of disguises,
this earth merged in traces
where you have wandered.
You have pondered
on roads that look back
for you, for you to
spill blood, on track.
Modern Romanticism 