Modern Romanticism

Telling our tale,
within our haunting
that buried us beneath
an absent sun.

It hangs our necks
on burning portraits,
above melting candles,
below tearful eyes.

It hands us disgrace,
dissolved from symmetry
into the many faces
around our graves.

Tattering our sails
upon a creaking vessel
enveloped in a storm,
praying for safety.

Life awaits our years
to turn our strands
into the color of the moon.

Love held out our tears,
drowning our bodies,
drifting our hearts.

A never-ending bridge
receives our old,
reused footsteps
echoing into the night
where flowers die,
where winter reigns.