Modern Romanticism

In stages of white,
you are leaning into
all that goes gray
without light.

You drift into pages
that have no dimensions,
wilting without reason,
speaking without intention.

There is still
something that says
that you will
keep continuing
this directionless steer,
if always being away
from your war.

You cling onto
your bare world,
leaking just
one pure memory
onto the one
that came before.

You never stay
for more than
a small instant,
defying your own
blatant gravity.

But you roam,
with water circling
your trembling legs,
deciding on this,
without much
for the rest of us
to contemplate.

If finding warmth
in your fever
keeps you centered,
then it is up to us
to leave you as
unneeded parasites.