Modern Romanticism

Carried as petals
over vast contents
from our melting eyes,
we’ve been thinking
over unsealed hearts,
trapped inside
each other’s Hell.

Heated tides
have been waking us
within the night,
for us to hold hands
with our fever,
within our fright
extending forever.

It’s a curse
we continue to lead,
with the light
from our golden eyes.

We’ve meant well,
sticking close to hear
what sudden changes
in heartbeats could be.

We’re locked up
to look down,
to witness this rush
to speak to.

It’s to nurture a season
where tears fall
as quick as leaves.