Modern Romanticism

Through this silence,
we both scream,
rippling waves in emptiness,
discarding our tranquil,
stillborn hopes.

Through madness,
we’ve both made each other
sworn enemies held close,
bonded in the iron
of our blood.

Our faces are severe,
as our blood burns
upon its sudden rush.

Our disease is to sear
our flesh into blackness,
more bare than earth.

A sickening symphony
cracks upon our voice,
opening with the depletion
of what we held in.

After igniting oil,
upon flood waters,
we have to see past
this glowing barrier
to carve a path,
a one-way
direction to dissolve
our poison.