Modern Romanticism

I came around,
flooding tears through town,
soaking our palms
outstretched to a sky
that shone its exhausted light.

I bled, for both of us,
relighting wicks to ignite
our eyes, within draining twilight,

for a moon was not able
to leave alone our fright.

We were concealed, in arms,
while unable to discard
a falsehood, this space of evidence.
Its harm, its purpose to remove
our presence, caused us to beg
for return, to that circle.

We became a shadow,
drowning in our lungs,
while deep in our breaths.

We drew black around
our gazes, withdrawn from
those trailing blazes,

burning in where we stand,
finding fault in everything
we immortally demand.