Halfway drowned, backwards
from being crowned. Our behaviors
have stayed, to fell our grace,
have stayed to regain this space
sifted in, like ashes to be lost within.
We look back, we turn back,
and we are reassured within fissures,
spaces that divide,
alongside sickness to subside.
To take us down, inside Hellish sound.
Because we were not meant to be
lifted for Heaven, and never
rise from solid ground,
while smiles are all we have
broken into mirrors, recognized,
grateful to reflect as frowns.
While we lose, continue us.
I’ll continue us to become loose,
as you continue us
to hang from Heaven’s noose,
for Hell to have its freedom
to choose,
while we are living our names
brought down as stains,
upon hand-written letters that do not
rewrite themselves,
when we are looking down.
Down, from never keeping
Heaven’s burning crown.
Modern Romanticism 