Modern Romanticism

All in the shade,
kisses keeping low
the blue from us,
a choice made
after a session
in a storm.

Green meadows
are far out of reach,
while we decay
in a gentle embrace
of death’s way.

Striving for eons
that won’t relieve
how we’ve seethed,
blinded to tears
that revisit.

Monochrome oceans,
mouths that beg
for the sun’s return
while we drift on,
while we’re mourning
in the morning.

This isn’t anything
to be rowing for,
while dirt mats our hair,
sweat tugs at our skin.

We’re burning
under the constant lash
of anticipation.

We’ve solved nothing
through our walks
on the inside.