Modern Romanticism

What were we,
while holding hands
with our scars?

A challenged surrender
drops our teardrops
to flood a plain,
to multiply
our stains.

Indifference differs
a state of stability
from this paralyzing walk
over an edge
into a river.

We’ve been lasting
just to keep drifting
with tattered sails,
towards embittered defeat,
consoling deceit.

Coming to care,
coming to share
a prayer
to the stars
had us kneeling
on broken knees.

We were too far gone
to bring back
our light, for our faces
that turned dry
from endless rain.