Modern Romanticism

We've punished progress,
having chosen to extinguish
a source of warmth,
a smile from the sun,
while we were on the run,
bleeding backwards.

What sort of evidence
told us to disguise our trail
with nothing more than
endless ways to fail?

We did nothing but lie
to a space in the evening
reserved for moments
we should have cried.

While we decided to
continue wandering
through a lightless desert,
we kept leaving marks
on places better for
their desertion.

We should have left
this darkness that turned
our eyes from a truth,
from cruel admittance
that'd cleanse us.