Modern Romanticism

We were right, when we
began to consider
all that we ended, by ignoring
what we were breathing.
Inside the flames,
a heart stirred, a mind
had blurred reality
into an infinite swirl.

A fierce notion,
two burning emotions
from the same source.
Pledging our devotion
to a sickness, where its fever
warmed our quivering hands.

Blind to the miles
we yearned to cross,
though we did more
to flee, rather than free
our colors from the frame.

We bled what was paint
to another of Hell's kin.
We scorched our fingers
under the same surrender.

If we remembered something
that will flood our brittle empire
with a lesson to learn,

might it be too late?

Or is it another symptom,
lost to the same fate?