Modern Romanticism

I've led us
to being transformed,
while hidden
behind black curtains,
bleeding before we weep,
weeping before we sleep.

All at once, becoming
something hideous,
while ashamed to break
ourselves, apart from
the scorning sun.

It illuminates
these dreadful wounds,
as we build ourselves
down to submission,
lusting after emptiness.

What could we become,
when we remove the barrier
that keeps our feet
from crossing that bridge?

We want to, to rise
against the current
that pulls, that strengthens,
while we keep our forms
bonded to a shell,

living with beating hearts
encased in motionless,
dreaming bodies.