Modern Romanticism

Perfumed smoke
stings eyes to tears,
while I yearn to transform
beyond my years.

Inside a mirror,
I am imaging
what I'm imagining
to be someone
hurled into tomorrow.

For tomorrow's sorrow
is another song
to build on an effigy.

Tomorrow's grief
is what I've yet to learn,
when I carve footprints.

The sunset
is a detailed scar.
It's a part of yesterday's
spiraling sand
in an hourglass,
collected from
a visible shoreline.

The sunrise
provides a translucent,
transparent opportunity.

Who will I be,
from when despair
is no longer the flare
to keep me lifting
a head, to see clarity?

Who can I be,
after this world
does not burn
to give me warmth?