Modern Romanticism

Locked within weather
that deteriorates our eyes,
that makes us smile
only when we cry.

We been searching
through these feelings,
seeking some other
method for relief,
reaching for one other
route that rounds
our self-destruction.

We wish for our
freedom, our forgiveness,
washing our hands in
all the darkness between us.

It's all we can do,
while being stars apart,
losing tears from
our faces, bound in
these infinite traces,
surrounded by
the dust that returns.

We've burned down
our tragic homes,
breathing in fumes,
choking on the smoke.
We are dragging back
this selective salvation,
a resurrected release,
until all we know
is what we've failed
to grant its growth.