Modern Romanticism

Transferring this
disemboweling darkness
into identical patterns,
always reversing
a direction into misdirection.

I want to stay
standing here,
waiting for clouds
to turn from gray
into white.

I want to pray
while kneeling here,
feeling bitterness
hang from a tongue,
tasting horror's whisper.

Life reviews me
on blank pages.
I have become unwritten,
washed out on shores
with waves receding
an unkept promise.

I live to remove
portraits from a wall.
All of them stare,
in their blindness.

I live in winter's caress,
bleeding in summer's warmth.
I can hear spring calling me
to fall from an autumn tree.