Modern Romanticism

Rehearsing this,
a tale you've being telling
to a thousand more
like me, because you know
that I will listen.

But you do not expect me
to replace your shadows
with anything else
other than what
makes more.

Anything other than
a lantern, a candle,
or the whole of the sun
I cannot offer, cannot bring
when it's held close
to blind your eyes.

In love, even while
I am able to glance over
a barren shoulder,
I become senseless to
these recurring sensations,
surrounding myself
with soil to bring up
a forest to be lost.

Hopelessness, in hope
for that which provides
more hopelessness,
because you don't expect
anything else,

after the lantern,
the candle, or the sun
burns out.