Modern Romanticism

Wilted, our surroundings
are blowing dust for us,
reminding our minds
of what fell with us.

We’re leaving our thoughts
back there, in their place
to forever curse us.

There’s nothing more for
that final wish we made,
under a dissolved sun.

Nighttime crept our way
to fill us with a silver glow.

We weren’t meant to be,
but we were meant to leave.

A storm will drag
our traces around
a town filled with ghosts,
revealing to our audience
all tears that descend
from fatal frowns.

Leaves will be swept
into forced directions,
as each will be like
these fragments of us,
like the dust that swirls
in and out from us.