Modern Romanticism

Bloodstreams spill more,
than their warm contents.
Reflections of turbulence
are conveyed in ripples.

Isolation’s curse
helped us to reformat
the rules that kept us
behind closed doors.

It became a dream
to hold onto,
fighting to prevent fear
from being our alarm.

We began flowing,
while also falling
into constant imminence,
blind to consequence.

We drowned,
because we
forgot to breathe.

We took to it,
knowing that we
would come to grieve.

The impossibility
of a single instant
to become more
dragged us towards
the pale moon,
a colorless surface.