Modern Romanticism

As deep as this heart
can ever be moved,
will be similar to
as far back as promises
can be reversed into
a previous life.

I cannot peer into
a void, without eyes
being blinded to
become nothing but
diamond dust.

Why were we
always fleeing
from each other's
soothing arms?

Why have we
tortured our souls,
living for nothing
but the pressure?

Stopping bleeding
was never to be like
how we stopped
our glowing hearts
from beating.

We stopped our feet
from walking.
That was after we
fell from a cliff,
that was after we
fell in love.

What other love
can resuscitate
our bodies, from their
final burial?

What other special
kind of breath can be
given to shattered lungs,

leading us far
from sterile ruin?