Modern Romanticism

We threaten the rush,
burn our fingers
for too long in their reach
for the rising sun.

It is here, where we leave
the rest to its ruins,
our breaths to be released,
never to be returned.

Into the void,
drinking what washes
through our throats,
being the coldness
always from our
carved-out aperture.

It is enough,
after we listen
to the sound of a siren,
for long enough.

We will fall,
we will be running
in different directions,
exposing our wounds
to speechless observers.

We'll revile in our remains,
removing what continues
to ever blossom,
during all nights.

We'll drown in discordance,
having severed us
from deep remembrance.

There’s an infinite shoreline
to be crawling on.

It is calling to us,
as it is writing to us,
inviting our pain
to be just as endless.