Modern Romanticism

I spoke through
reverberations,
mere echoes
deprived of presence,
when I promised
I'd keep away
your shadows.

I became an extension
of your bitterness,
blending in all that floods
from the ruins
of this world.

In your direction,
light never finds a home,
especially when I
carved nothing from stone,
made nothing of a garden
I vowed for its color.

Is there anything else
to remember me by?

Is there nothing else
to prevent your cries?

I have failed
what I thought
had been a ship
with impenetrable sails,
when it was always
a single scratch away
from crumbling away.