Modern Romanticism

Tearstained, from a gaze
that keeps itself forward,
as nothing comes back.

Nothing goes backwards
besides this disassembled mind,
with fragments, for blue skies
with a blanket of stitched together,
harrowing thunderclouds.

Driving on, with lights
that ignite either side,
though neither have anything
worth fighting for.

There is anticipation,
while being awash with grief
that a ghost will be enough
to settle this aching.

There is hunger, to hear
a voice that we beg for
to come near,
though is it ever near?

Losing time, thinking about
those invasive shadows,
like shrouds for a casket
to be set, in a cave from earth,
where rain will nourish,
though daylight will not enter.