Modern Romanticism

Trace those words
making marks on your lips,
in the dust, and always
being retraced for a funeral's
constant tolling of a bell.

I've been living in it,
internalizing what's dreaded
in those darker hours.

I've been inviting it,
like a long-lost friend
who gasps, doesn't speak.

I never wanted this,
an eclipse of a mind
drained into becoming
more of the void,
in our universe.

Tracing what you've said,
a mirror image of what
I see, but cannot believe.
It remembers an end,
while it cannot ever tend
to memories more pleasant,
while a future grows
more uncertain under each
passing second.

Tell me what's left
to be, after I've recognized
anything that's right
to remain as,

because I've yet to notice
when the storm will clear.

I've yet to express
courage for what I fear.