Vain. Veins, lashing from smoking eyes,
lowering bodies into timber,
ample for our aching fire. We sift,
when we drift, desiring nothing more
than all the world’s hope,
combined,
believing more in what hearts had cost
to drown in blood that we lost.
There are leaving stars.
There are remaining scars –
from a dreaming night, where we
had been wallowing
in the gleam of sadness and honey.
Tears painted our cheeks,
becoming dry for a recalled portrait.
For oils, upon skin, wrapped
around fingers. There, we were held,
within brittle isolation.
Were the sparks countless?
Weren’t the moments limited,
watering us down to a memory?
Weren’t we all we never had?
Were we anything under a cruel moon,
hoping to rise like a blank sun?
Modern Romanticism 