Modern Romanticism

Train station.
Wait with the one
who fell in love
with another’s light,
someone else’s path.
They were lost,
They were left
to rust under rain,
running on tracks
at what they’ve watched.

A witness.
A clearance,
to be taken in
to that one car,
with a dim candleflame.
A ghost has been waiting
with silver to its form –
a bottomless aperture.

It wonders at who entered.
It knows to acknowledge
a breath, that accompanied
musical sobbing.

Its face, smoothened,
open to this one’s entrance
to senseless security.

Its eyes, closed,
though in blatant comprehension
through its studious soundlessness.

It knows. It reminds.
It writes to the one
who stands, with doors
rusted open,

a letter to their heart
demeaning love, belittling flesh
back inside its beginning.

To be back, to be on track
with humanity’s insanity.

It does nothing more than to know
where this one shall grow.