A written chapter,
a decided milestone,
birthed from
unreleased emotion.
A tinge of bitterness,
growing this wilderness
streaming onto
immaculate white.
Whoever reads this
will recognize something
to be dead,
and we'll hope that they'll
continue after a defeat of one
whose tale remains unfinished.
They'll extinguish candles,
loosening their tongues,
if that means to
finish what will be recorded
in a room of shadows.
We've shelved our stories,
we've grown tired, while we
were always walking
down endless corridors
to familiar corners
in our hearts.
Who will bring us
into resurfaced fruition?
A calmed sky
once raped from storms,
fills blank lines with blue.
Who will continue it,
when we have nothing
but silence to sit for?
Modern Romanticism 
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