Modern Romanticism

I am torn on reminders,
fueled for this sudden ride
past a station, where you left
your baggage, your burden
for me to collect.

That mirror, I see all
where sadness holds hands
with a messenger’s light.
You are exploring
your path, on that swath
where plains will find flame
for your expression,

while I’ve depleted myself
into countless grains.

What’s left to burn?
What’s left to imagine
while dirges are being sung
to your passing? I am passing
your face, your cloaked eyes,

for I cannot; I truly cannot
save your soul,
on this decrepit road.

I cannot, I truly cannot
find it in myself to go
onto lifting your form
like a stick, from a lake,
since all you do is break.