Modern Romanticism

I’ve been breathing out,
in years of being withdrawn,
wandering within,
wandering without.

I have left shadows open
for display, but who’s to say
when another door will open
to reprieve me from the gray?

Disillusioned in countless,
bottomless perspectives.

I have become numb,
I have become mute,
walking forward,
while thinking backwards.

Who will run this direction,
to bring forth their light?
Whomever around
remains left?
Whomever around
can determine what’s right?

Love is neither black
nor white, to be a divided highway
leaning between the exit or the stay.

Love is a summer of color,
residing in thickening truth,
laid as a bruise upon the throat.