Modern Romanticism

These symptoms
of a sickness where rust
will form upon skin,
upon a graying texture
where oldness becomes coldness,
as eyes are deciding
more of an ending
than these unquenched lips.

I remind myself,
back to a time
when light came alive
at first glance, at a moment
when a spark had been
an instant to be revived,
when delusion had been
that sustenance to survive.

I recall that second
when I held a floating hand.
It dawned for me,
felt the air for me,
since I had been touching cold,
diseasing myself upon a fold,
a pause upon a page
where doubt become certainty.

When I come back
to a fading pulse,
I am reminded that not even
countless grains of sand
are enough to keep an ocean
forever standing.