Modern Romanticism

This crypt, an entrance
echoing thunder, immaculate
in winter's embrace.
I've let the answer go,
becoming filtered through
disgrace and weariness.

I am those droplets
loosened from the storms,
as I pilot a grim ruin
in a dark aftermath.

I live, but I don't love
what I've had to continue
its existence in a void
I've come to adorn.

Color drapes around
an absence, where someone
once also wandered,
though never met me
on a field, beneath
flashing skies.

I have been needing to
keep remaining breaths
from felling a tower
I have built, to look out
upon a desolate road.

One road, to remind oneself
that loneliness is the trail
to guide, to misguide
a pair of eyes to a star,
an eclipse.