Modern Romanticism

When you fall,
let yourself go
with the leaves,
when you leave
in your autumnal
discoloring.

It’s the tragedy
played out
like a symphony
for a pale-blue ocean
to decide
for you.

It’s the weather
disguising Heaven,
flooding Hell
for vain relief.

Run with the dead
who’ve run from life,
escaping in an eternity
of disbelief.

An echoing curse
returns to remind you
of what you did
in reverse.

It’s an idea,
it’s all seamless,
connecting your remains
with a recent vow
to cut your wings
upon a flaming cross.