Modern Romanticism

Bringing back inside
a breath I let outside.
At first, it appeared alien,
until I noticed myself
uncovering myself,
until I was freeing
all I've not understood.

Reflecting walls
are four, plus one
I've been ignoring
for its ultimate worth,
for what it says
when I'm weeping
these storms away.

I've been unloading
what I've been crowding
in this buried soul,
while not ever seeking
the value of being.

For pain, with decay
in steadiest regard,
it means to relish
one most fertile
of opportunities.

An attempt, to believe
in an end-road, to be
contented in being
without a need
to always bleed.

A wish, one I've been
rejecting for its state,
as it appeared too foreign,
even if it had been me.

Even as I've been here,
in this room of reflection,
I was blessed to not know
if a curse was the worst.