Lay a fault,
at a rusted coin.
A token paid, for
emptiest gain,
leaving blame
at bases of abandoned
statues and silhouettes,
carvings with
outlines of your
fulfilling presence.
Something scarred this
meadow. One thunderstorm
burned a mark
at love’s newborn awakening.
As shadows, we race
across tears left as dew
on flowers with lowered,
submissive heads.
Believing our best can
ever overthrow that next
phase of unforgiveness.
Believing we can bring back,
can resurrect
those feelings we
never did select.
Believing that as love
rests in its nuptial funeral,
we are trophies out of
greater reward.
While Hell deserves us
for what burns closest,
are we believing in
highest Heaven,
at its closing gates
to a heart left to break?
Modern Romanticism 