Modern Romanticism

The pressure, the words that
have left us naked in the raw.
The stagnation, the air that
we breathe, we’re holding in
is much like the fracture,
much like all we can’t contain
before we unwind.

Bound up, held up
to a storm of intoxicating,
disheartening colors.

It tells us to lose
this world we did not win,
our minds we’re not saving.

To be, to a beautiful world
we’ve explored, to ascertain
what we’ve denied,
it has remained
a blissful certainty.

Under fear’s flag,
we’ve crossed our eyes
through blue veins
pumping forth our deceit,
sheltering the truth
until it’s not us.

There was nothing left
of our unknown us.
We resorted to carving
a space in a shell,
to hide from our Hell,
to see where we
might renew the seed.