Modern Romanticism

Its strength
is a kind of madness,
deciding the acts
in what I create,
behind the curtains,
beneath being buried
with layering sheets.

Its music
is not of sadness,
while I’m living
for the purpose
of being this close
to a rhythm.

A heartbeat,
heard in long echoes
through longer hallways.
I’ve been rewritten,
adding pages
to this state of bliss,
revisiting stages
represented in a kiss.

Who is God
for giving what
has ripped me open?
I am no one’s
distant enemy.
I am just one’s
closest remedy.

To they
who hold it in,
they breathe what
won’t let go,
as we clash in smoke,
building happiness
until eternity
times out.