Modern Romanticism

Being favored,
until bitterness
becomes that flavor.
We are angels,
burned in each other's
weighted arms.

We are cruel, when we are
always pledging forever
into another raging war.

This mind will rewind
our sunset back into sunrise,
with nothing but that moon
blocking our escape,

our entrance, back into
captivation and bliss.

A repercussion
reprimanding what we were,
under petals of wilting flowers.

A defense, one cracked wall
that faces both directions,

but can it come down
to where we are buried?