Modern Romanticism

Reviewing eyes,
a feather in the way
burns at my grasp.
I do not release
anything I catch,
even when it causes
discomfort and unease.

I've let a heart
be torn at its seams,
to come apart,
while I've been watching
spaces being filled
in external view.

Buildings close in
to remind me of what
I've closely buried,

after being blind
to abstract faces,
within internal view.

I've been seeing
nothing that will
take steps back,
being built, at it will
tell me to retract
a loud voice
turning black.

I've held onto flags,
never painted,
connecting lanes
with binding ropes,
pulling together
what goes on,
what stays still.