Modern Romanticism

Something.
Something to say
while  I’m losing
the meaning
in what I’ve prayed,
while filtering
the curse, through
a cycle of blessings.

I was born to reword,
to unveil all this intention.
I was disabled, kept from
seeing the ongoing
birth of brighter fields,
where I can stray
from the unkept promise,
from the plain position
I use, to pray.

Anything.
Something to hope for,
when covered, whenever
the skies are darkened.

I am anticipating
when faces are seeing
the old me.
For I am agonizing
the outcome, sharing all
that no one will recall.

I have no one
to bleed all over.
Unchecked, as I am,
when to be reborn,
once again.

I am here, needing
only someone, anyone,
when anything will do
to cover these sheets
in their care.