Modern Romanticism

I've burned
more than I can
ever renew.
It is still enough
to recall it all,
vanishing into
thin trails.

Just a memory
being permanent,
on a dotted line.

I've driven it in,
like a nail, for a wound,
dying for a price.

It wasn't much,
if its insignificance
can be compared
to an ocean.

It doesn't return
for more than a second,
blurred into distinction.
It comes to corrupt
what hopes to go,
untainted by
a lost page.

I won't rebuild
from a mere trace,
when its grace
was not meant
for heaven.