Modern Romanticism

Choosing, always slowly
to come ever-closer
to a barricade, to a line
where oil and water
never combines.

Reinforcing, with certainty
that my delusions can be
representative of my safety.

I am never clear,
while my eyes swim
in resilience, in defeat,
telling my backwards,
dark reflection
I have something more.

All I have are chapters
to be closed, to be bound
in a broken spine.

All that's left are reused,
simplistic words, while I
am rowing on a lake
where light never spreads
from a sinking sun.

In the fog, on this body
of contaminated water,
I am weeping with
these familiar sounds.
I am lifting a chest
to bring it back down,
driving on this ship
through vain exhalations.