Modern Romanticism

Keeping still,
leaning into this
enthralling absence
where all seems
too welcoming.

We refill our glass,
with nothing transparent
with truth deserted.

We are never
near enough to sever
gladness from madness.

We just stand outside,
bleeding on the inside.
We hold out our hearts,
hopeful for the wind
to drag its scent
of entrenched iron
to one more station.

What else is waiting?
Who else is hoping
for our long recovery?

Can we keep counting
heartbeats that have
their synchronous,
melodic rhythm?

What compels us to feel
as closed as we are open
to speak of what we
don't mean to say?