Modern Romanticism

I keep deciding
against a wiser notion,
siding with an emotion
that guides me forward,
as I look backwards.

Blind, I am,
to what I believe,
denying all that died
in becoming brittle,
reflecting fragments.

I see a man
in each of these parts,
as he has remained
wandering in a maze,
drunk on a haze.

I see that sunlight
has always beckoned
these eyes to find
a different life,
after leaving this
forever behind.

I am, however,
finding holes in all
I could ever promise
to such withered flesh
that I possess.

Unable to forget
all that brought me here
to fell these tears,
unable to loosen
a suffocating knot.