Modern Romanticism

I funnel, I channel
these energies through
these open wounds.
Neptune's applause
is from a vague notice
to a man whose heartbeat
will stop when he knows
he clings to a final sign.

Shadows merge in this
branding moment. I am
withered, when I filter
a smile down an avenue
where I want to lay.

I want to sink this form
of mine, where it will not
ever shine, deep within
a grave, among my
feeble kind.

Neptune can watch,
while it bleeds from its eyes.
Oceans are far and vast,
as I cannot outlast
history's lines of rehearsal.

I am lifting time
on shoulders, made of
unearthed silver.

I am breaking what I
find hard to bend.

I am leading sheep
towards their slaughter,
before an audience
dripping with laughter.