Modern Romanticism

When rinsing these hands,
I am watering a collection
of private scars.
I am growing a garden
that echoes after every
drop of morning dew.

I have been leading
these footsteps
towards an ledge,
where I'm always
dipping a face
into the black ink
of an abyss.

When I write,
shrouded in silence,
I have been merged
in surrounding white.
I have sunken
this form of mine
in pages, for surrender
to be how I remember.

Losing time,
not wishing for recovery
when it will stop this heart
from chasing a different,
absent beat.

An hour hand
holds the minute hand,
severing itself into pieces,
while the second hand
reveals moments I have stolen,
under a solid blue sky.