Modern Romanticism

This tension has spoken,
has written our names,
along lines, along the scars
that run their length
on our flesh.

I let exit from these lips
all I've been meaning to say.
I wish I could liberate
from its echoing shell
a promise that continues
its pressure, on a soul
that never mourns itself,
when it continues to sell.

When I walk up to you,
to be burned in your eyes,
you'll measure me,
keep me upon shattered knees,
while I enforce the tragedy
keeping me in agony.

This tension has broken
all our trust into a trail
of crumbs to follow.

Our scars are all that
remind us, rewind us
to simpler moments.

What will you say
after I've given everything?

How will you pray
after your requested answers
amount to nothing?