Modern Romanticism

Laid out,
like unsent letters,
the words hurting
as long as they
aim to be.

Your tongue
shoots for honesty.
Your stars
come back
to restart wars.

Your Heaven
is but a cold drift
among a skyline’s
exploration.

You’re revising
your truest feelings,
cutting them up
to leave behind
the debris of petals,
as dark as the trail.

You disregard
the snow
just as easily
as the dust
falling from
your tearful eyes.

You freeze the rain
with the time,
with the reflections
of deceit
on your cold breath.