Modern Romanticism

It wasn't the type
of flame, to be ignored,
heating our fingertips,
having us rejoice
at each time
it went away.

The moment we saw
what fire can ruin,
we gave into our flaw.

The second we revealed
our wounds to either,
nothing else can be sealed.

We were secrets,
becoming final chapters.
We turned into plot twists,
becoming enemies to our
stagnant conflicts.

We began caring
for nothing more
than a sinking ship,
drifting far from
our blackened shore.

No more would fall,
from the weight
of our collected tears.

Nothing else can stall
our feet, from marching
over the grime of our fears.