Modern Romanticism

Here’s to white-out,
to one of our breathless,
dreamless storms.

Here’s to what’s imagined,
highlighted as nothing
in this fragile smokescreen.

What would our purpose be,
if we went on to give more
than what we first had?

It’s the anticipation
that we had bled for,
exposing aching limbs
among the dirt.

It’s the echoing sounds
that gave us comfort,
in that space of belonging
we weren’t meant for.

All the meadows we ran in,
we mistook them for Heaven.

All the tears we let go
had flooded our rooms.

We began craving
this feeling of being
misdirected,
while refusing to accept
what we were forgoing.

It was done on purpose
to let our hands
splash in a twisted image.