Modern Romanticism

Why were we ever
a pair of souls, searching
for something to match
our wandering eyes?

Why have we always
kept secrets that close?
We fed what kept us
moving further away
from candleflame,
into our disdain.

Shutting doors,
closing curtains,
remembering our love
to be anything but
full of light,

because we favored
the fade of those forces
that deceived us,
that kneaded us.

We were shaped to be
something cemented
in futile pride,
divorcing all colors
beyond the bitterness.

How would we ever
be meant for more?

We put out the light
to become the night.