Modern Romanticism

Lost under
several million droplets
of sweat, rain,
bitterness in pain,
for you still linger
in this smoke,
blending in with me
in broken mirrors.

Long enough,
it has been, to label
this experience with remorse.
Nothing has been here
to refrain me, to restrain me
from blossoming a thorn,
from an image this torn.

Blinded, stinging eyes
see nothing of clarity
of my disguise,
while I am lengthening ripples
with memories that cripple
a pair of legs, meant to walk
afar from what stays
in its closeness, to talk.

What of peace?
What of these pieces
that were hurled to all places?
I will return to collect
what exists to resurrect
some design of complexity.