Burning rooms. Fields of vision.
Your train of thought wires us
in disconnection.
I am helpless,
in a battlefield without remission.
Our vows are empty,
without revision.
Nakedness. Petal-less.
A near bloom that faded
in an empty room.
Rose-red pictures
diluted of their original flavor.
We dried in our tears,
while bringing our grief
onto bloodstained letters.
To wine, in its bitterness.
To oceans in their salt.
To this absence between
that cancels our debt,
while labelling us as foreigners.
Cuts for our fingers. Enter salt.
Rewriting a memory for shattered bottles.
One more lost message
near sunlight.
One more tear brought down
near candlelight.
I have strayed
within depths of a furnace.
I have been doused in oil
to be reignited.
Inside a heart that loses flame.
Inside written letters
for a grave’s own epitaph.
I want to keep dreaming.
I hold hope close
to keep screaming.
Modern Romanticism 