Modern Romanticism

I am still sinking in,
with thoughts that overturn
others, on this blinding pathway
where sunlight keeps me going –
but where am I going?

Back again, to those aimless ways,
over to that field where growth
had been an intrusion of thorns.
Color was always a thin mist,
while hauntings were those clouds,
gathered for memorial.
Rain would bring nothing up,
besides repetition,

of an entrance, to a fading mile
where I’d explore the poundings
of a heart that stays eternal,
in its demand.

I am still reeling in
a history’s radiating aura,
swimming in what I do not desire,
though continue to keep.

What am I finding
on this fatal journey?
What am I remembering,
within mist, under clouds,
when life will keep quaking me?