Modern Romanticism

We hold our breath,
letting thoughts go
in exhaustive exhalation.
But some part of us
expects the storm
to come again.

We’ve been racing
the other, to the finish,
running on a thin line
over to a bold one.

The tales we’ll tell,
being diseased in our
womb of a shell,
means we’ll depart
the state of company
to that of an enemy.

We’ll untie, to release
what we’ve meant to be,
as enemies to our war
on once-friendly soil.

A time of our sorrow
bring a guilt-stricken,
undying tomorrow
full of our errors
we had made, during
nights full of terrors.