Modern Romanticism

I've been flooded
inside recluse water,
hoping for somewhere
to hide a disappearing,
baneful repeat.

What held us close,
enough to see what
was expected to come up?
Was it a promise,
darkened in its strings,
woven in its bonded,
imprisoned figure?

I release tear
after freezing teardrop,
after knowing
all that kept me forgiving
a storm's reversing trail
I had followed, until I
shredded hope's sails.

Naivety is a drug
that takes apart
the better, for the worse,
keeping bodies close,
even when they're tugging
at the noose around necks.

Tragedy breeds remorse,
a velvet song from mouths
once having kissed,
behind matching curtains.

What gives us grief
other than the same thing
that'll present relief?

What funnels this sorrow
into bottomless lungs?
A breath from every surge,
retreat at every urge.