Modern Romanticism

I've been revolving
around buildings,
open doors,
panicking while pacing
in a room, covered in dust,
covered in the film
that captured
some precious seconds
I cannot remember.

I run fingers
through these piles
of soft ashes.

I welcome
whatever lingers,
melted into shadows.

Who remains in me,
speaking through a void?
There, there was once
some spark, some flame,
a candle to guide me
along these lines.

I am left with
redrawing images,
finding other avenues
to become centered.
I must maintain
this prolonged breath,
before it's exhausted
under black skies
I've long since dimmed.

I'm abandoned to
speaking different words,
fading into the presence
of further scripture.

Something for faith's sake,
I cling onto, like a child
wishing for warmth,
begging for comfort.