Running towards
leaking sunsets – surging crowds,
those that blanket us in frost.
With winter weighing our backs.
With tears, shaped into crystal,
ceasing our reflections,
are we ever craving
more than uninterrupted silence?
Running towards
what solidifies ruin.
Once, drawn upon plain paper,
to become some
well-known abstraction
revealed, from a pair
of cursed minds,
from a sentenced kind.
A trail,
one that always
went deeper than anything
we judged to hold a meaning,
for faces to weep for.
Are we rejoicing
in our separation, from a tree,
never finding spring
among a scene that depicts
downfall and disturbance,
downfall and hideous resurrection?
Modern Romanticism 