Modern Romanticism

They’ve rained their stares,
driving their wind,
being insensitive, for a sensitive
mind that fails to recognize
a paralyzed kind.

Futures are all abroad,
across an ocean of time-lapse.
Histories feed over a rope
for a pitiless balance,
shouldering sickness
with one vulnerable witness.

Who knows the rest
of where we go?
Losing darkness,
finding one’s way back
not to a beginning,
though away from an ending.

Words are everywhere,
written as milestones,
written for a mere sake
to congratulate a survivor
who tells their story.