Who knew
while our ends met,
that the journey would catch ablaze,
that the suns were set,
that, upon our pain,
we would never be fazed?
We still took
to cast ourselves off,
like fishes who gained their freedom,
but we were still on hooks.
We were still
hoping – being behind curtains,
behind the shield
that kept us stilled,
for unmentioned seconds,
within gnarled arms,
among histories that burn
with receding futures.
We drove to the finish line,
listening to the anthem of our heartbeats,
hold inspiration like a noose,
giving us weight, handing us gravity
to keep us weak upon our knees.
We found sensation in the madness,
as we found sadness in the resignation,
but we still took off, once again,
to show the world
what we have sent.
Modern Romanticism 