Build roads. Burn shelter
for desperate parasites.
We attach with
our eyes, vague upon
lasting tracks.
Bruised palms. Broken
doors, open to light
between cracks in a smile.
Are we fulfilled?
Filled up, with
a mouthful of ashes.
Are we instilled?
Reminded, to believe
in all things
less than grief.
We have opened
covers, to close our scars
in referenced endings.
We have lost more
upon winter,
in its choosing.
White pages, erased
words, of commitment.
Actions that lasted
until a disappointing
conclusion.
Longest trek, onward
onto a bridge, to a cliff.
Let our blood run
from arms to fingertips.
Clogging rain
from exiting out
windows, of our eyes.
To let our sighs free,
to express pain
will not sustain me,
cannot sustain thee.
Modern Romanticism 