Modern Romanticism

I am leafless,
drawing shades as I
walk in constant circles,
retracing the image
I should have known.

What is there left
in this spiral of decay?
I am causing
more noise
than I have lived
to create.

I have crafted carnage
out of endless symmetry.
I have expected screams
of paranoia in the night.

Who’s there?
Where is anywhere,
while I’m picking up
reused fragments
from a desecrated,
fragile mirror?

Why do I stay
while wrapped in rope,
displeasuring myself
on the vain idea of hope?

Why do I run
from the fire to the dust,
waving a white flag
on a blackened ship?