Modern Romanticism

A state of none.
Senselessness, of one
pair of longing winters,
who are taking turns
handing over frozen teardrops
collected like grains of sand,
collected like stars,
as a wish for summer.

A place to shun,
of one pair of wicked lovers
who’ve hung portraits
with brokenness, at glass surfaces –
remnants of puddles,
where faces were glued
for spontaneous glee.

They’ve hidden their ruins
within helpless clouds,
fleeing their rain,
running from embedded stains.
They’ll entertained their woes
with faults, well-known,
spotted, among them
in blinding snow.

Shame covers their faces,
while lights go gray
in an abandoned town,
where they stay.

Truth wanders, aside,
from their phantom depiction,
their plight, for their space
has nothing to trace.