Modern Romanticism

It’s a known notion
to lose motion,
to hold hands
with the last breath
before coming down.

We’re not beating
our chests for bruises,
branding the pages
of a half-written story
with tearstains
for insult.

We’re releasing
to clean up that space
we left piled sky-high
with the dust
of abandoned homes,
burned photographs.

Exacting a crash,
letting surroundings
become vapor
after our breaths
start to whisper
what we yelled.

It’s a disease
becoming a need
to pull life’s horns
onto our way.

It’s to please
a quiet voice
speaking through
violent noise.