Modern Romanticism

Darkened by
fate's rewritten verse,
as I move, to win
back that feeling -
the one I felt
among night's growing
state of deprivation.

I hold a blank sheet
of torn paper,
bleeding words from dust,
forming images,
from a picture I have
burned into memory.

I've never been one for
moving apart from the sun,
while I keep holding on
for the sake of knowing when
notes will be re-sung.

To music, that carries on
this yearning through wind,
while I live on, inside all
that keeps me here,
waiting for the train
to pass me by.