Modern Romanticism

Sequence it,
a final droplet
from an eye,
for an aftermath,
where shelter stands
forever, if we meant to ever
remain gathered.

Spell it, relate to it,
while faces are staying
in their frozen expression.
Ice is another layer
upon those miles of grief;

what do we dig through,
in the rust, upon the crust,
as fire melts a moment
into deceitful lust?

We want, we crave
for something to be extended.
Another cloud to awaken?
Another face to surround us
in what it speaks?

Living on
means to remind the fall,
of the reason for why
a leaf can turn over.