Modern Romanticism

What let you in?
What let us go,
moving with falling rain,
healing only when
we've forgotten the existence
of silent shadows?

Sadness knocks on a door,
colored in white,
mistaken for the ivory
embedded in bones.

We were designed to be
broken, when beneath
a fatal kind of stare,
worshipping the moon.

Something has arrived
to settle itself in our hands,
letting letters be written
upon swollen hearts.

We weren't meant to know
whenever we will be given
a ticket into tomorrow.

There are tracks to follow
on this path going backwards
into a moment gone mute.