Modern Romanticism

Another tragedy
once called a hope,
as endless as 
repeated expectation
for morning to return.

You could not return
to a world we were guilty
of ever imagining
to be our home,
built with stones
that would come to
be those to wound us.

We loved until
what was once wide
became nothing but pride.
We loved until
we shared the same veins
we were bleeding from.

We loved until we
neglected to water
our garden with anything
other than our tears.

We loved until we
began seeing shadows
the same as light,
until we were burying
our skin in the soil,
seeking glimmers on petals,
craving pleasure in thorns.