Modern Romanticism

This close,
ever always signaling
upon a road, this empty
that I've been crawling
over these stones,
over this glass.

Eyes look back
when years are fluid,
when expressions
keep repeating themselves,
for wind to bring back
those abstract words.

I'll be promising
to my reflection,
in an ocean,
that the whirlwind
can keep playing
its sacred song.

I've been desperate
to keep building
all these rafts, to find
a distant shelter.

I've been eyeing
the path of this flow
of this current,
in this time.

Life drops a bucket
to full up with tears,
to provide a generation
with the wisdom
of a single sufferer.

This close, this distant
from the sands of a shore,
where I can be digging
the start of foundations,
for everything better
than everywhere
I did not matter.