Modern Romanticism

We were the nails
for our coffins,
each one a finger
that never loosened,
that kept digging
into a scornful
sentencing.

We ignored for miles
what we eventually
woke up to see,
that it was our endless,
misleading journey
turned into reality.

The waves of doubt,
the ocean of despair,
the clouds of ivory
turning dark,
come morning.

The buildings
made of copper leaves,
the faces burning holes
from a flaming stare
were like ghosts to dismiss.

We were berated
on all sides,
knowing deep within
what we thought
was just an illusion
for foreign eyes.