Modern Romanticism

These words I've come
to regret that I've yet
to utter them from
swollen lips.

This heartache, this yield
to light that retreats
when I'm not coming
close to its warmth.

I've promised the darkness
that I will nurture it,
given this nature to be
surrounded by screams.

I am under an ailment,
choking back sounds.

I am stirring in a glimpse
of too many unidentical,
separated patterns.

I am under a great display
of widening thunder.

Who is there?
Who is seeing me
wilting with gardens
that don't grow,
despite the rain?

Who is hearing me
shouting what I'm not
truly listening to,
lost from beyond
being cured?