Modern Romanticism

Reused remedy
within those approaching waves.
What comes with sadness
other than a familiar song?
What else cleans
these wounds, more than
where eternity belongs?

I stare into blackness,
as it hides behind a storm.
It rains upon midnight,
where each silver droplet
still gleams, from a fading moon.

What will give me an anchor,
to remain still, to keep me
as I am, when I want to be
bound to that eternity?

This reused remedy
follows me beyond eclipses,
stands loyal, with me,
between years of night,
seconds of day.

My hands hold a rope,
tied to the sky.
My feet stand upon
ruins made of ice.
I've lit all the candles
I could find,

though I am not
able to believe I'm blind.