Modern Romanticism

Thin wires, ripping through
like slender candles, all the way
down to your fingers, where their edges
were where I sent screams away.
Who drowned to let us float?
Who knew as much as we did,
while we were always dragging
our scars, that close?

Portraits are a grave reminder
of what we’ve seen in another.
Lifted fire, against our cheeks,
turning us golden, with an ocean
turning our stones into liquid.

Diving under, with a faceless admiration,
knowing those seeds we tossed aside.

We raged on, eclipsing our stardom,
when we let all that light in,
while having nothing more to preach
since our mountain has collapsed.

We’ve moved on, holding old hands,
hearing our hearts among dust,
letting bridges turn to rust,
while tears never quenched us.