Modern Romanticism

It was the push,
the scream
that told us
our sentencing.

It’s too inevitable
or outright acceptable,
while we’re floating
for some distant promise,
made without
a clinging beginning.

Covered in shells,
unable to discern
its weight
from the infinite petals
with their absent fragrance,
their present discoloration.

Cornered in Hell,
losing sight of the light
that let us enjoy
each unleashed breath
before seeing them turn
into blinding fog.

I still want to kiss,
even though
all that is left
is to bury
skin among skin,
in the wild.

I still hope to revel
in the remnants
of a world,
while it’s clogged
of its voice,
unable to preach
for the betterment
of tomorrow.