Blame
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“A memory is much alike the waves of an ocean, in recession. And, when they recede from your feet, they’ll return, to throw tiny droplets as high as your nostrils, so you’ll breathe in whatever scent they have always come to you across. Whether they are sweet or bitter, you cannot forget.” – Modern Romanticism
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Between all stilled forms,Where tension summons up,The most felled-upon,Of sinners.There is you.There is you for the statuesThat seem to weep. They shield their eyes,Unlike you,Because you only stare,At their discarded and frozen bodies. You were loved,Like the tragedy, made to be,Made to be the most hellish curse,Of this newly-won marriage,And a conquered woman you’ve become,Like
Modern Romanticism 