Modern Romanticism

Pain does bring back that rain,
though summer is always warm,
while autumn sheds those leaves
I should have uncovered
to see remaining green.

Love had reused old memories,
while life turns to ashes
some sense of symmetry.
What was I feeling during spring,
when during those throes of winter
there’s no color left to bring?

Shredded photographs,
fog that conceals this town
where I am lost in scenic,
tragic remembrance.
Tears have regained their flavor,
as there’s something more to savor.

I keep remembering what I lost,
while forgetting what it cost
as I hold onto the hope of regaining
what I only imagine to be remaining.

I keep savoring these symptoms,
lasting for this endless illness.

I hope, if there’s an end to this rope,
that there’s light inside my shadow.