Modern Romanticism

In all that the darkness
will drown, we've forced
our footsteps to go
without considering
the coming eclipse.

Blood-flows stop,
passions are deserted
after we've gained
no ground, before
the sun closed
our eyelids.

Lightless burial,
a march in stagnation,
spilling words of anger
in hues of red,
from shades of blue.

Shadows replaced it,
in a complete sentencing
of our hearts, buried in
life's tireless sins.

Shadows replaced us,
upon total desertion
of our fates, dragged into
a duel between worlds.

We're left with folding
pages for pauses,
seeking comfort in moments
stolen in the light,
felt in the fever.

We're left with drinking
residual tears, with consuming
ample dust, funneled through
the open doors of our minds,
the emptiness in our homes.