Modern Romanticism

A wilted song
sung from a pair
of lips that taste
bitterness of blood,
the reveal of tears
remaking the starkest,
most chaotic flood.

This has gone on
for far too long
into the drear,
with much to hold
for our dear,
extending life.

With much to keep,
we cannot remain here
forcing curtains to
conceal when we weep.

I'm nothing but
a petal, landing too heavy
on your porcelain,
trembling shoulder.

You are nothing
but a burning flavor,
living as an anchor
to sustain me
as a sickened presence
when absence looms.

Why wait for our
unpleasant funeral,
denying one's right
to end things
where they belong?

We could dance
on our own ashes,
blanketing forests
in discoloration.