Modern Romanticism

Will you ever be
anything other than another
roaming, scentless petal,
floating always within
those ripples,
of your current time?
In finding shells upon a shore,
you’ve become hollow.
In seeking Hell,
with nothing of yours to adore,
you’ve stayed to wallow.

Will that mask,
hiding your tears
for your colorful portrait,
ever come loose?
You’ve driven daggers
for open wounds,
for open doors,

but you are
never coming undone,
while you have years
left to be won.

What moves you?
What leads you,
where you are,
behind this curtain
that conceals your crime?
Being a breath away
from coloring your gray;

but you are
curing wounds with scars,
burying memories with more
to bleed for,
upon your naked shore.