Modern Romanticism

Blistering, thorough,
concealing our remains
in the hush
of fallen ash.

We wanted delivery
of our remorse,
while wishing for a flood
for all we nourished.

We couldn’t have both,
drifting sideways,
deciding in our way
that our eternity
is our sentencing.

The light we extinguished,
the presentation we dissolved
turned us into forever,
in the ever-approaching memory
in what leeches us.

These sounds are fire,
our worship of a time
we believed we were fine.

We are coming down
with relief on our lungs,
grace on our hearts.

We are bereaving
what impales us
upon sunshine.