Modern Romanticism

The last of us to go
will be the first of us to remain,
daunting and haunting
upon skeletal remains.
Tragic kisses are born
into farewells, for sculptures
where a depiction
stays with its inscription.

Love must abide by
those who were aware
of what was slipping by
with the rain, under shelter
from storms and pain.

Life would not rewrite
what keeps itself roped,
around necks of stardom,
around what has been given
its continual, residual highlight.

The first of those who remain
in screaming for faces,
marked like stains,
they will echo those terrors,
those shadows that follow.

Shadows are another swell
from the last presence,
to the current sentence
that describes a belief,
that quells nothing for relief,
while it drives on,

in the rain, for the pain
that has been crystallized,
in repeated names.