Modern Romanticism

You tilt your head
at this banished day
having become
an extinguishing night.

There is a shred
of lingering brightness,
always in that final second
that compels us
to rush our destination.

Where will you go
when our walls are healed,
or have stood up
more often that we
have ever crawled?

We block the feeling
that continues to rise,
with a greater urge
to turn our hours
into momentary relapse.

You hold in your hands
all that we've replenished,
though never drank
to mean to subsist
as we continue to resist.

Here comes the morning.
There goes a song
carried in a heart,
as one dirge that repeats
an ongoing mourning.