Once, we were
like devils, plummeting
into the Hell of each other’s arms,
swarmed with heat,
like a desert where nothing
had ever quenched us
in our even thirst.
We could have come up
to see the sun, to observe
where we could run,
holding each other close,
but we were
wailing like infants,
roped in, dying within
terminal in what we began,
whenever it ended.
We have lost
all sight on this prize,
landing in the dust,
our heads
buried in sand,
listening to the remains
of an ocean we tossed forth,
then drained,
with the flames that lick
our now-vacant shoulders,
where no soul could cry
to hear the answer
for “why”.
Modern Romanticism 
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