Modern Romanticism

Will I know
when to flip that switch,
to turn off those lights
that brightened
only my reflection,
in isolation?

Will I ever know
when to sweep you away,
beneath a rug,
far from this soul
you’ve constantly tugged?

I grow enraged,
turn red with the flame
that ignites this pale existence.
I am a flag for surrender,
with brittle ashes to remember.
When will I know
to be more than a shadow?

To decorate a faceless statue,
to kiss a man who blends himself
in with this dark pathway,
smeared on a long highway.

To spread glitter on a mound of dust,
to speak to a ghost that only whispers.
Can you hear that echo in this soul,
from someone who accepts his toll?