A set of dying eyes
crumbling, like worn paper.
Old news, for another day
in leaving droplets of dark ink
as another message
for an infinite, despairing world,
rotates in all blank footsteps,
while none can calm aches –
those sores of a man without his cane,
his last limb to plod another course,
a path of an unknown mile.
Dark vision has been attempting to
see an ending of heartbeats,
with his footsteps that travelled.
His silence, never believed in.
His faith, stopping here
on this aimless day.
His life that submits.
His back, being bent
to pick up rocks, hurling them
to a pond, to send ripples,
other meaningless messages:
those further idled efforts.
Who told him to disbelieve
without one more minute of sight?
Who kept him guessing
at when his heart will quit its might?
These rhythms confused him,
His wisdom has been halted
at another sign on a pathless road,
a futile milestone
to present advice forward,
while it instead moves backwards
where other lives
have caught his final sigh.
Modern Romanticism 