When we choose
to break that noose
kissing our necks,
stretching our roads
into another
suffocating mile.
We have walked, onward
to remain forward,
to stay honest,
while we were lost upon
our own footsteps.
We never knew
our eyes cried backwards,
while our minds kept
dreaming of history.
Some kiss, comforted by
a cloud’s descension of
rain, through our desert.
Painted over with white,
blankness in deafening night.
We weep on, using thorns
to write signatures on flesh,
to find devotion
in this vain motion.
Moving on, bleeding backwards
to that spot where we spoke
words we failed to know
will be erased with snow.
Modern Romanticism 