It sticks to symphony,
the erroneous areas
where we were
meant to be.
Covered with ink,
displayed wide,
while given no room,
no space to think.
Love dried,
like the bones
we laid for dust
for them to become.
Life died,
bloated with bleakness,
drenched with the honesty
of our intentions.
What we went on for
didn’t believe in us,
didn’t favor us.
Whatever we desired
conditioned us to distrust
the smallest of sincere words.
Our faces, pulled back,
exposes a truth.
No longer can we lie,
when we’d dig into a wound
to keep it open.
Our traces, left behind,
deserted like the sun.
A lightless lighthouse
doesn’t lead our vessel
from dark storms.
Modern Romanticism 
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