Modern Romanticism

It comes back
to haunt you,
in the white of this
explicit tragedy.

All has gone gray,
twisting itself
among the path
you followed
this way,
the only way.

Haven’t had enough,
have you? You rewrite
the description,
obsessing over
those details that
no one remembers
but you.

Wide-eyed, helpless
when the world falters
to understand
why your wings
have been burned.

Your arms are bruised,
while your legs
have received the stains
of an unbecoming crawl
always back
to your safe grave.

The overjoy
for your madness,
the release
from your sadness.

It all comes back
as a tighter knot.