Modern Romanticism

Pour it on. I’ve known
the little there was to know.
I’ve known only what
there was to see,
initially.

Keep me on. I’ve grown
no more than nothing.
I’ve felt the weight
of who to anticipate,
who to fill.

Your cries are ongoing.
I’ve never taken shelter
when it was snowing.

You whisper your screams.
I’ve been there to undo
all that you beckon me to.

There’s a light to find,
a soaring high-beam,
leading me, on my dead,
lonely vessel.

You lure me to your
open grave, where innocence
had its cradle of finality.

I take dives, to see
all I regret viewing.
Because I’m not,
and I’ll never be
permanent,
to bring you closer
to resurrection.

My own grave, closed,
it will be, like a book,
that was never opened.
It had never existed
to reveal history.
I had ended up burned
down to ashes.

My life is a story
I’m not even reading.
I am not writing it,
because these stones
are being pressed
against my neck,
holding everything in.