Modern Romanticism

You deserved a choice,
seeing me, left without
a space to bury this
fatal flaw of flesh,
in an aftermath.

What do I hold,
when it has become
rotten with the cold?

It decays, it stays
still bleeding in these
plainest hallways.

Upon my left
where I've been bereft
of all that used to shine,
I continue to my right
on this vain course
to seek remaining light.

I scour over emptiness,
with bruised, bloodied hands.
I bring up to my lips
some exhausted shadow,
something I will kiss.

What is it, other than
another thing as infinite,
as small as these sands?