Pain follows its footstep,
under where we cried
with blue in its dimmest hue,
wired in this shelter
where storms never pass,
deserving us
born upon another,
bleeding where we
are distantly smothered.
Thunder fades
to come, again, as we
are each crack in a tree
that grows if only to show
what it did not know.
We are those flames
that conceal our
brittle wounds. Nothing to
live for, with all things
to love after. Our eyes are
watered under those
descending tragedies.
Weather in those clouds.
Our hands, scarred,
with smoke rising
from open lips.
Our fever, our light
goes out in this faceless
night, where we
have been fused, if only
to never lose.
White lightning, a blank
page to keep our tunes rehearsed.
A bleak shell, a shape that
retains its hollowness, like our
words said, if only
to keep its silent,
violent melody.
Modern Romanticism 