Modern Romanticism

Who seems keen
to find interest
in a mere shadow
blundering in its light,
graceless in its uneven,
meandering pace?

Swollen eyes
have dropped,
just like anchors,
heaviest residue.
Hands quiver,
under the sun,
mistaking warmth
from a fever
to be from another
granting kindness.

There's been a tragic,
blindsided delivery
of weather, in an aftermath
that left limbs broken.

Fear has become
a frequent reminder
to re-administer
the familiar poison.

There's been a passing
in the sense of what's
brought from dark clouds,
making bodies heavy.

Suffering has become
a close neighbor,
having printed its presence
in the darkest shelter.