Modern Romanticism

A black ceiling
stills where she
strays her gaze,
has been holding
her flame, gathered
into one spot.

She faces a mirror,
detecting nothing
among her marks,
refusing peace
as it sparks.

This black ceiling
shelters her, as a cloud
of congregated ravens.
To death, it is singing
until she blends her years
into forgetfulness,
into numbness.

She wants to take
that everlasting plunge,
reversing gifted love
to a dying eternity.

She'll escape
anyone's arms,
slipping away
in the blood,
within her
concrete flood.

What might I say
when she'll cast back
her shadows?

What can be said
to someone who wants
no lighthouse, no beacon
to keep her ship
from sinking?