Modern Romanticism

Holding a door open,
for you to close it
on your path towards 
a funeral in the dark,
a setting sun.

You were flowering
when it had been time
to correct your
vanishing smile.

But you were always
hoping the sun
would lower you
through its anchor.

You were awaiting
the end of each day.

You were resenting
the light, for the gray.

Smoke shields you,
while mirrors remind
what little remains
in your barren mind,
of what you do not
find strength to undo.

For a love,
for a yearning
of what might
come around,
you do not.

You won't,
while you warm
your hands, in ice,
melting always
the fire, when it
flickers off.