Modern Romanticism

There deepens
the depth, due to
a lone trickle
from two veins,
from cold droplets
soaring from cuts,
on purposeless smiles.

I wait to know why
we had to surrender
to refuse love
for its sacred remedy
for our tragic,
persistent travesty.

Life has been our sore,
death has remained
our loudest calling.

Darkness is nothing
when through funerals,
we’ve kept confiding.

Needed burial
for brittle bones,
once closed around
two aching bodies.

Now we’re trapped
because of time’s betrayal,
because we ran out
of what was given
so freely.