Modern Romanticism

Hopeful gloom,
racing through
all this perpetual doom,
holding itself like
teeming desperation
on our wrists.

We bare scars
like a winter cloak,
shaping our errors
with all we find.

Hanging high,
our eyes, out to dry
on a fatal cliff
where limbs go stiff
climbing up, to worship
what never stays
in wounded hearts.

There’s nothing but
the sun, to set our home,
with a chimney
pouring out the fog
to fracture our sight
in seeing the glow
going dim.

Will nothing be
entering the cage
of our arms,
to remain with our
trampled faces,
looking down,
to what fell within?

Will all go out
with the highlight
upon our storm,
flashing for the suds
to swallow up
our lives, in a shell
our home, our Hell?