Broken – letters smeared,
weeping with what we endeared,
expecting to keep removing
imperfections from those lessons
that we didn’t offer our eyes,
while we settled on lies.
Leaving ruins, returning
to a home covered in dust,
letting rust connect –
color of blood, reusing that flood,
teardrops of all shades,
entertaining our way.
Our haste to keep remembering
all reused lettering in abstract
descriptions,
fading meaning in a collection
of greater white – neglected meaning
in a state of sealing
letters sent into a salted lake,
while peppered in ashes.
To close chapters, to shut eyes,
explaining this disappointing ending.
To burn pages, to be stagnant
in cruel stages that were
all those steps,
moving backwards,
and repeating our words
back and forth,
in symptoms we won’t release
in a singular, expressed
original vow.
Modern Romanticism 