Modern Romanticism

Caught up in our
isolation, plain with our
anticipation. There’s a rose
to burn, to turn into
another reminder
of what dressed us
for this place.

The one face
that captured our
strangulation.

Deprived of air,
we kissed the poisonous,
resolving vapor.

Blended with rapids,
the white curtain
under our feet,
we gave in, upon a time
when sand was
reused moments.

For we ended up
on a glistening shore,
blinded fron light
we thought was for us,
we thought decided
we weren’t to be dust.

We became the parts,
broken down,
the pieces of a heart,
torn apart.