Modern Romanticism

Tell me, under these
cloudless days, what I
must rewrite on a heart
that has become a stone.
Tell me, while I am
weeping through these
countless fingers,

should I fall back
to breathe in air
that was poisoned?

Darkness scares me,
when I close these eyes.
I am seeing reflections
within shields for light.
I am collecting moths
for a discolored flame,

because I cannot wait,
while this world has placed
a hand around this throat.

I cannot remake a shape,
while I remain shapeless.
I remain naked, while I
steal sickness from where
I thought I was cured.

Make me absent of heart,
not absent of mind.
I want to remember where I
placed a thing I kept forgetting.

I do not want it to sting.
I want it to bring
a single symptom of renewal
to a space made of hope.