Modern Romanticism

It is looking like
we've been feeling for
venom, being injected
in long exits, we soar
while skies turn purple
with fresh bruises.

We are here, bleeding
into the world, drying our
long, desperate eyes
with much earth,
giving rebirth
to an anger,
to a fire.

It is our place, to be
all we cannot concede,
while waters are rising
within our stares,
inside our hearts.

Taking cover in this
shelter of shelters,
being mere ruins
where innumerable,
decorative holes
are bringing in
everything that can't
quench our thirst.

It is sounding like
cracking thunder,
coming through
dense clouds
to remind us of what
we ever sundered.

It is staying as
what we'll never clear
from its echoing shell,
from our glimpse
of eternal hell.