Modern Romanticism

It was the last
to be released
into one wild,
open domain.

It was given,
bitten before
everything had
been rewritten.

Loosening chains,
greasing palms,
weathered from
holding tight
one final night.

Falling into you,
waiting for the arrival
of what matters least
in our survival.

I had chosen for us
to be named second place,
on those circles, where we
were being chased.

Love brings in colors,
lust saturates them,
creates fire, when love
couldn't raise us higher.