Modern Romanticism

I recount those times
we could see,
we were believing
that our smiles
grew from fragrance
not of our sores,
not of our exhaustion.

This time, we grieve
over these pieces
we give away
to those who’ll try
harder than us.

This time, we disbelieve
in all that went right,
dragging our name
through the mire
of our miles.

If such bitter tears
could refrain our tragedy
from being our grace,
what can we be?
What’ll we redo?

We’re just insects
inside a haze,
buzzing in chaos,
in undecided directions,
if not crawling.

Living in the sea,
we’re as lost as clouds,
reflected inside this
endless puddle
of our dissolved,
smeared reflection
we cried to create.