Modern Romanticism

I've chosen to drift on
with these clouds around me,
leaving their rain
to resurrect a mountain
of all that had burned,
on its endless slopes.

Something more
wilts in an era,
where shattered glass
reveals all angles
a reflection can be viewed.

Someone listens,
but does not give away
their location,
through a whispered prayer.

Someone has not learned
their own repeated language,
enough to stall the coming
presence of a future
that burns pages,

those that have captured
their sentences as weights,
as gravity's pull.

I've chosen to keep moving
this sickness, through a herd
of following shepherds.

They've chosen to learn
a language that does more
to bite than to feed.