Modern Romanticism

Who were you,
before this tempest
brought you into sympathies,
unexplored for endless,
forceful heartbeats?

Who did you become
when you clung upon me?
Were you still a noiseless echo,
transferring between halls,
emptying words as easily
as those stones you carried?

All of us have a will
to repel. But you were here,
finding sanctuary
among a hollowed out sphere.
You did not drift,
in becoming that which
keeps you going.

For a second longer,
you were going ahead,
while limbs were stilled,
as hearts had bled.

In love with another rock,
that kept you
from floating away.

Into the life of the formless,
wanting nothing
that’ll lead you away.