Modern Romanticism

This world swims
in its own lucidity.
I develop scars
out of all I've recalled
in this exhausting toil
to see what I've missed,
letting letters become
a hidden message.

I've let all pain
become the endless trail
from a blown-out candle.

Smoke crawls through
reflections from windows,
mirrors, and into the softness
of eyes that want to
look back, on lamentations
within history.

Dig into me,
all of your presence,
letting drown these fumes,
this smog from a dismal,
sickening countenance.

I do not want
to keep myself sinking.
That has been the way
it's always lasted,
living ideal days
in the tension
of the night.