Understand that we were
leftovers, to be lost,
needing a trail to be
our forever’s sail.
But how could we hold,
when to our stars,
we were never gold?
Love has made us
a town, to be faceless,
to not be remembered.
Love has gifted us
a plain of ruin,
because we were,
as we always were,
one step behind the latter.
Life has been the betterment,
alone and indifferent.
Beauty was never our discovery,
when we decayed our surroundings.
Walls were covered in blood,
while we sunk into the iron,
the bitterness of train tracks.
Modern Romanticism 
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