Modern Romanticism

A backlog
to remind a spirit
that it must complete
what it cannot delete.
A spinning coin,
a note of which side
it might fall,
though there’s a parade
celebrating both ends.

I am rewinding
my mind to see myself
drifting to either side
of a moon, cast in either black
or white, in spite
of a need to reengage
with what’s right.

I know not of what’s right,
even while knowing what’s left
to complete, in this obsolete
nature of keeping beneath
teardrops, to nourish these seeds
buried at my feet.

I figure that sadness could resolve
a problem I’ve never solved,
while I’ve been here,
letting memories revolve
around traces and smears.