Modern Romanticism

Upon the folds, creases,
the unkempt sights of one
who hasn't had enough
to keep drinking.

For what he's thinking,
he'll be paralyzed by,
for a good part of eternity.

But you stand there,
humming your words,
singing through
a recollected heart.

Your veins aren't hollow,
your heartbeat is regular.
You aren't as shallow,
even when standing
in those puddles,
keeping your reflection
never shattered.

I've been filling
these cups, to their brim
with regret, with what
I have begun to select
to move forward
with me, in this
fast approach.

With sickness attached,
I am removing
a skeleton from its flesh,
detaching this life
to become one with death.

My answers were always
within the background,
as I hold this candle
to create no light.

But there is sound
from when I scream
towards shadows.