Modern Romanticism

Tidal fire,
expressions of doubt
directed on our flesh.
Where are we
most fragile, to be
always scarred?

Love has drawn
its crude map,
lashed into shape
on our backs.
Twisting promises
into unintentional deceit.
We wanted to,
but what could we do
after finding that fate
led us towards its gate?

We bled, during times
we would dread
our feet beginning to retreat
back into our shells.

Crimson comes
as a wish, to present
a connection to
our starving hearts.

Open doors, open windows
on all sides, allowing in
the uninvited tide.

Alight, we were
in a feverish glow.
Who could we pray to?
Where could we go?