Modern Romanticism

I am here,
lost without, by living without
the familiar burn.
Coldness isolates me,
wandering into these years
without. With the feeling
I keep remembering,
I am wrapped in curtains,
wielding stones
upon my naked throat.

What do I revive?
Where do I survive,
when this heart cannot be excused
for being alive? No one hears me
shout, when I am
existing without,

being held in a shell,
like a coffin for the ocean,
for a blinding hell.

Attempting to sleep,
choosing to weep
when closed eyes
are coming around,
leaving me with a dream
where all I do is scream.