Most this fog
can ever linger,
laying across a deserted
headstone we both share,
are thin strands of
those hopes we prayed for,
inside a temple of solemn errors,
uncertain love.
Most what confusion
can ever bring to light,
to a sun that
needs not to be seen,
are what we run on for,
to be that someone
we forever abhor.
A cruel pair of eyes
burns out lit candles
that guided our path,
towards everything we cannot
share to departure.
If letting our hearts
drive those winds,
while allowing
our lips to resume those
fateful words, we will
remain phantoms that sift
through our images,
transparent for confusion,
clear for our haunts.
What hopes being drawn
on isolated shorelines
can be brought ever closer,
without always being lowered
beneath clouds that were
never higher, always
beyond reach to tear away?
Modern Romanticism 
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