Modern Romanticism

A shelf full of selfishness,
of memories that enclose
for their stagnancy.
I have followed up,
as everything stands down,
when it's been used up.

A room that's embedded
in lingering contemplation.
Knowing an ending
to be an ultimate roadblock,
bereaves me into leaving me
with endless awareness.

Drying up these eyes,
letting sadness be engrained
for a distinguished disguise.

What forces me into recognizing
what's coming at its approach?

What faces me into thinking
there's something to reproach?

I am removing
movement from veins,
rhythm from a pulse,

fading into a scenery
that rots in its grace.