Our love, a stranded hope,
a peddler’s pack of heirlooms,
though music, for our needed journey
to enters our arms, under our faces,
blanketed in destiny.
Our breath, above this ocean,
though most times we viewed sunsets,
we were witnesses of bottles,
holding unread messages,
we were, what we could not find,
lost under our own curtains,
bathed in what we bled.
As lost as those voids,
those burnouts of distant fires,
those hands that were parted
at those sounds of shattered hearts,
though we still carried our journey
across stained landscapes,
believing for what
we did not finish.
Holding out our hearts,
holding out our palms,
taking what was left
to surround ourselves, with
or without,
though we kept searching.
We kept stinging our knees,
pleading to that next mile,
placing our ears to that damp earth,
hearing our hearts,
already buried.
Modern Romanticism 