Modern Romanticism

It’s a nightmare
of common conclusion,
telling stories
without a stable circle
of smooth stones.

It’s a series
of poignant ineptitude,
dissolving contrast
into conflicting,
restricting similarities.

Once the sunlight
has an end within sight,
we’re blind with the smoke,
shedding tears
from stinging eyes.

Once the pain
replaces what’s right
to be living with,
we’re just journeying
inside death’s reach.

Its stark value
from the method
of direct disassembly
of our anatomy
has us floating
upon bitter streams,
chaotic dreams.