All those sirens
shriek to sounding
doomsday, in its
helpless gray,
no different than any
blank page that lays
as those curtains
to keep our hopes lessened
while our tears soak
our outheld hands, with
our hearts becoming silent
in this new day.
Another dawn, another
coming of another age,
though with
all our rewritten pages,
resaid vows, we are
written twice, though are
split between vice,
split between words
we froze into ice
while playing
with past heartbeats.
I have tasted blood,
while sober from wine.
I have held your bleeding palm
on this muted tongue.
I thought you were there,
while I travelled nowhere,
using my tears as
steppingstones,
weeping behind a mask,
I use as a mirror.
Are we always this dark,
even while we are fading
into passing mist?
These screams I hear
are comforting, as they
resonate this near
beside your statue
I see, from afar.
Modern Romanticism 