Modern Romanticism

Suffocate this journey
from a thousand
flame-engulfed moths.

They were bred to be led,
losing their way
upon their connection
with finality’s light.

Bandage nothing
while we cherish
the sight of wounds,
left as ragged
as our clothing,
as our bedding.

An outpour of tears
flooded the space
where we nested
a cold reflection,
discerning our years
for all that went by.

Wilt like flowers,
burn like paper
covering our story.

We’re like the rest
that died to see
what we emptied.