Modern Romanticism

You shared with me
this echoing symphony
of asymmetry.

We were nothing but
disfigured figures among
this intruding frost.

We did not soar
when tears were
meant to fall.

We did not leave
while pain enticed
ourselves to stay.

What did we draw
while being naked
in the sand?

Holding out a torch
to illuminate only
shards of our forms.

Blue skies,
reflected blackness
from our faces,
in the sea,
where its depth
cannot cover us.

Our desperation
pleads from our hands
to raise a single spark.

We cannot kindle,
if meaning to grow
what stays as dust.

Stillborn, in our love,
where shadows enter
a circus for the lost.