Modern Romanticism

Fewer, to be
underneath, where we
were counting stars,
bleeding with those cuts
along our sacred miles.

We were dreaming,
or were we screaming
in stinging our eyes
with reflections,
with desperation?

We watched this,
from afar. The moon
with its rush of scars,
the stillness of aftermaths,
of meteorites against
what something could not
win against.

Exhalation. Reflection.
To see our sights in those drifts,
where fire forced us to breathe
the smoke, before we choked
on our remnants.

We were losing ourselves
in this current,
while we were finding our time
to give in.