Modern Romanticism

Enough times
to be seeing ahead,
with one crime
that kept us looking
over our isolated,
cold shoulders.

We regret the word,
the promise we shared,
burning bridges
before crossing them.

We weren’t meant to
be met to be wed,
under skies full of its
storm of sunlight.

A glance at a corridor,
a sprint down where
all memoires, those on
infamous portraits,
was all it took to see
that we couldn’t be.

A watered sculpture,
the rising of what
cannot be solidified,
keeps on only
these iron spills,
from opened veins.

We go on to bleed
after what we believed,
denying the loss
even while naked
on a flaming cross.