Modern Romanticism

A fragile depiction
conjoins a merciless resolution,
fitting this stained image.
I've inked upon this heart
statements of remorse,
losing light in these eyes
while I can't help but to cry
for what I can't bring back.

Even after hope's well has dried,
after the road forward
has been concealed with snowfall,
I look even to the dark void
for everything that held sound,
for something I cannot avoid.

A bitter solution
falls down a parched throat,
matching one tired mind
in all it chooses to bring up
from scattered ashes.

I've wilted whole gardens
through outright negligence,
wishing to rope in history's truths,
those that divide life and death.

I look to all that consists
of either black painting white,
or white painting black.
I will always recognize
that I cannot go back,
without rejecting the sunlight,
without refusing to remedy
a cold-hearted malady.