Modern Romanticism

We walked, with heaviness
that no slumber could relieve,
repressing our tears
back behind our eyes,
to the back of our minds.

We toiled, for these scars
to always see, to always remind.

We thought of different ways
to let go of words, to release
a gust from open lips,
parted just to be at ease.

We thought of wherever we
might serve in undying loyalty.

Reusing sounds that were
a mere promise on the wind.
It kept our rhythm
of a glowing heart,
reflecting a fading light
as a small sparkle.

All we did was insult our might,
for we were better than this,
better than how we would
come to grieve, yearn for bliss.

A line had been crossed,
a final stone on a river
that lets memories across.

One fatal understanding
out on a sea of crisscrossing,
fleeting images.