Those years we ever
deplored each other,
behind shadows, called doors.
We wore sinner’s crowns,
keeping shades down
on those lights we pretended
were signs of further hope.
How often were we thinking
of wrapping our hands
around each other’s throats?
A comforting connection,
a deepening reflection
lifted with the waves.
If we heal here, we will
kill each other in these memories.
We will murder our only chance
to reshape those leaving eyes
that fell with the snowflakes,
and never melt into summer.
Under collected scars,
embedded in reconnected stars,
we are loose with autumn leaves,
spilling all those tears
with wasted hours
redefining new years
in recalled fears.
But above those clouds,
our names can be rewritten,
should we ever
surrender ourselves
to a kinder Heaven.
But if we never
collect ourselves
for another dream,
our buds will open
with emptiness
and screams.
Modern Romanticism 