Modern Romanticism

Embittered words,
a fire to erupt
from a soul made of water.
It is its guardian,
to protect from a pain
that never settled,
never crafted a garden
to mimic a thousand colors.

All I see are these sparks
escaping from blurred vision.
All I remember is what left,
departed like a bird from hands
that hold onto the snow.

What wilts at my feet
are the briars that cut flesh,
made of lifeless marble.

I am this contorted specimen,
dreaming of what went beyond
a starlit background.

Memories remain aflame,
as infinite lighthouses.
I am without clarity
for which one
I can come near.

No guidance sends me
a song from upon a hill.
No future leads me
into faithful awareness,
like a dove with feathers
to shelter me.