Modern Romanticism

A softness, revealed,
even when you cover
your eyes, with hands
dirtied from searching
for something to fill
the hallways in your mind.

What has implored you
to believe in this dust?
It's always what never
nourishes you,
just as you keep craving
shelter beneath clouds.

I might not understand,
though I can reprimand
this small expression
of depravity.

I can force loose
your binds, that you
might, at last, seek out
a better method to sing.

Life has created the spine
to your book full of
burned pages.

Your footsteps scorch
the sands, stretching before
an eternal ocean.

All this, for you to wander
without realization
for how you've lived,
playing with an outcome
as another obstacle
to see your reflection.

When will you separate
the dust from the stars?

Why do you anticipate
becoming just the dust?