Modern Romanticism

Break those waves
coming our way.
They’re here to only
prove our finality.
We can keep hoping
for the same beginning.

Hold back our words
before they reveal
our lack of compliance
for the stone of reality.

We’re just the sand
outside a broken hourglass,
quitting the battlefield
before feeling our wounds.

It helps that it snows
before we walk.
We can see how we
return when we flee.

There’s no more sympathy
for our skipping hearts,
passing a torch
in between this moment
and tomorrow.

All that we show
is where we are
too fearful to go.

What does weeping do
other than repel the chaos
with impermanent contrast?