Someone showed me
a door with no key
able to open me, for a
path down to rediscovery.
A waiting game, a calling
forward, though no steps
are moving one
broken set of arms,
a burning torso.
Answers on silver,
moldable to be something
else, other than what
might be preventable.
Words that drift
as placeless sentences.
Eyes that find
light, smoldering to
an engulfing brink.
I could be anywhere
other than here, beside
a mirror that speaks
meaningless critique.
I could be somewhere
on that other side,
once I have broken
this sterile existence.
I might be with that one
who left me with teardrops
falling from rooftops.
Modern Romanticism 