Modern Romanticism

Why do we fall
for leftover ruin?
Why did we fall
without stopping?

It’s a nest,
a share of a mother’s
skeletal arms.
We both break
into crystal fragments,
like the mirror
we can’t repair.

It’s the past,
like it’s the present,
for we’re gifted
with words of history
on turning pages,
repeated stages.

We’re like soldiers
who scream,
until no one
besides death
comes to our rescue.

We’re disguised
under countless stars,
facing a fading day
upon the reflection
of a vast ocean.