Modern Romanticism

A cut created a hole,
a whole world to roam
where echoes cling onto
our rising structures.

A hole created this home
for us to sink inside of,
treasuring comfort
wherever it was lost,
while always musing on
whatever it had cost.

At first, we broke into
somewhere we had found,
some place we believed
nothing else had been.

We had hoped we could
decorate it in paper,
doused in words
once as bottled messages
floating on endless,
oceans to drown.

We were accompanied
by what shadows that we
ignored for their
method of extinguishing
bright light into pale,
everlasting moonlight.

What once warmed us
from a flame, from a hearth
became a night filled with
a reveal of our wounds
letting in the cold
from decaying walls.