Modern Romanticism

I’ve never known
when to remember less,
supporting the existence
of a scentless garden,
with needless resistance.

When I seek a foot forward,
I am moved. I am brought
back to those ways,
among these cloudy days.

I’ve never learned
when to accept a sunset,
healing hurt with further hurt,
hoping that pain will return
to fill an empty cup.

When I place a glance
towards a sunlit pathway,
I begin to drift. I will sift
through dusty remnants.

To open veins,
against open lanes,
I wish for the former
to continue their divide.
I wish for no tears
to continue to subside,
though continue to submerge
my body in a lake,
with my smeared reflection
always looking back.