Modern Romanticism

Defying it,
the feeling of warmth
from the rising sun
melting residual scorn
bleeding from eyes
yet to be unblinded,
yet to be reborn.

Underneath this darkness
is more darkness, to be
buried in its endless,
cementing hallways.

I bleed upon when I
weep to those sounds,
far beyond where I
shelter myself.

Laughter sings somewhere
outside of shadows,
within this inhabited town,
apart from an abandoned,
regressive mind.

In sickness, I am merging
bruised flesh onto
shattered bone, all the while
feeling no pain in the union.
All I want, when I search
is this night to be eternal,

digging into a wound
to bleed better,

dragging around scars
to know worse.