Whatever hiding spot. Meet
here. We wander on hot pebbles,
living inside fissures.
These roads, where all our
suns come down. Those valleys
where all our growth
fell low. We copy our youth
backwards, on a long walk
back to yearning.
Each inescapable sunrise,
all daylight we shun,
while words can run on
as prayers for a grave.
Late to be
attacked for belief.
We are closed in coldest,
stone-cold arms.
Rivers are our bridges,
while walls are our beds.
Wide-eyed, instigated.
Moon-lit, intimidated,
as current carry our
words, over cliffs.
Modern Romanticism 