Modern Romanticism

Our frozen expressions
turn to the clouds, for harmony.
Within them, we are viewing
the kind of sensation
we have grown to expect.

Droplets of remorse
remain intact, only when
they'll not turn to tears,
continuing to stay
as permanent smears.

To clouds of grey
in the anguish we relive,
thunder never emerges
as light for our path.

We still cling to tomorrow
like a curtain to conceal
all connective sorrow.

Hope has become a bubble
or an hourglass, with ease
to burst or to break.

Draining the purpose
for all action to take to,
inside this suffocating sphere
where this commitment
is a shield against risk,
is the soil above life.