Modern Romanticism

Thin sheet
covered dark patches
of collected irony.

Our blood
has been boiling
our time away.

Timeless noose,
death the sole honesty
after words were proven
to have been
unripened,
immature.

Promises fell apart
after leaving
once stellar hearts.

Ears rang through tears
falling from once
merciful eyes.

Now we hang
in the haze
of our rage,
dipping hands in
the stinging flood,
bathing whole bodies
in bubbling soil.

The answer
to our cancer
is to accept the rain
driving our hearts
into ruin.