Modern Romanticism

Being brought back
into the twists,
mouth wide open
expecting the kiss
from death’s giver.

I am hearing a name
spoken backwards,
while I’m singing
from a heart,
one I didn’t know
even existed.

It has its holes,
its assortment
of different lengths
to the scars,
being decorations,
being reminders
of the years
dragged in tears.

If anything will end
a life, one that
never recognized itself
under the life,
that time is now.

If everything will come
to be corrected,
without much more
to be regretful for,
that time is past.