Modern Romanticism

Our voices,
always shaken,
like the debris
that were once
mirrors for our
self-conscious,
startled minds,
now being
for our skin
to bleed.

Love floods
in unkept promises,
making our scars
yearn to be beautiful,
drawn in incomplete,
hideous outlines.

Nothing connects
from end to end,
nor had connected
from world to world.
A nest, for two hearts,
is where we kept
our searing warmth,
where we put our hands
when fleeing from cold.

Now when we are
discarded like pieces
of a once-framed portrait,
nothing but emptiness
makes any kind of sound.

Nothing but that void
that demands to be filled
speaks the words
we've taken to hills,
where nothing but blood
fuels a flow.