Like exhumed flame
from some unseen heart,
we fell, reveling in
everything we took from the start
of those bridges.
To them, we raised them
as crippled children,
lost in their minds.
Lost, though refined
in where they danced,
eager to be lost
on some amusing path,
serenading their wickedness
on the path’s own twist.
You were brought here
to speak for what we lost.
We were made, here,
to love, too unkindly.
We cherished,
bending branches, with limbs
we cut to spill the sweetness,
having lived in each other’s
colorful madness,
reminding those same children
of their unfortunate state.
To bridges, we removed,
while upon our ecstasy
of rolling in embraces,
among debris,
we stayed to consume the ash
for another hour
which lingered on our tongues,
on our lips,
reminding ourselves
always, of what we cost
those eyes, mirroring our damage,
the wounds, our blindness.
Modern Romanticism 