There might be violets
to see from storms.
There might be words
before those swords,
ever were held against
your fragile neck.
Because you want
to disbelieve in those signs,
that we conceived.
Because of that, you moved,
without ever remembering
our state, our bliss.
A dream, this terrible
gave you tremors from a
different source.
A nightmare, this sweet
gave you hope to see
beyond where stains seeped.
Communicational error
surrenders us to terror,
revokes your voice to a choice
I am degraded upon.
A thirst to conceal
all scars you never revealed,
all wounds I ever opened
at those signs, for what
stays broken.
Your eyes, torn
from bloodied bandages.
Your skin, scorned
from its perfection.
I want to find
more of my kind
swept aside.
I wish to cry
more than an ocean
for this earth to move,
for you to never
stand still.
Modern Romanticism 