Modern Romanticism

Seeking a cure,
at this end, of our world,
at this final stop,
after that final plea
we held, for seconds more
than our sights could handle.

Let us yearn after
that cradle, full of thorns,
that shelter we called warmth
even in its decay.

We could repel what we absorb,
to let our blood dry, our tears, too,
believing this to be healing
all of our aching days.

But we cloud a memory
we should wipe clear,
in all of its smears.
It is, as we are
handling regret with scars,
bruises, and fears.