Modern Romanticism

Surround this space
with unclean direction.
Remind me of what
I've lost, while I gather
all that I've burned
as a pile of dust.

This weather rains
from clouds as heavy
as this heart.

These fields absorb
blood from a leaking soul,
from a shattered mind.

I've narrowed this gaze
to a plain search for peace,
with blinded eyes
to the dark, as I deny
its own seeming
immortality.

I count razors
in the wind, passing me,
reminding not just me
to what sounds I cannot
help but to hear.

The echoes of other's lives,
their screams into eternity
have left me wanting
to combine these stories
into one constant bleed.

Hidden in the dust
is what will become rust,
if it will not reach
the space it's yet to breach.