It can go on. That
bitter, fettered taste.
Meant to confuse. Not
made to let loose
honest conclusions.
How backwards
will we ever think?
Those faces we
make, out from hearts
we take turns
to break.
I let my eyes
reach farther,
than these hands.
I see those skies
becoming clouded,
before bedsheets of rain
will fall. Emboldened
puddles, a reflection of our
glances, within
uncovered dances.
Suffer me, gently
to a moon that roams on,
indefinitely. A circle,
a disc to record
memories in circles.
What ends, if not
our hearts into rust?
Cold weather. Handheld
in old states, together
to see our symptoms
be stranded
in complacent fates.
Modern Romanticism 