Modern Romanticism

It’s too stellar
to anticipate
when to fall,
when to ever call
for much needed,
hopeless help.

There’s darkness
making these shapes,
the textures, within this
ethereal dreamscape,
one I say isn’t a nightmare,
while it is.

It’s too believable,
while it isn’t avoidable,
the high to get,
the trembling in limbs
that go limp,
at the thought
that wings replaced
the need.

Life becomes a memory
of a grave depiction
of my own art
of escape, to a place
where faces come to say
how much I’ve betrayed.

Some will stay,
entering here to join me
in this scorching furnace,
full of hours
I’ll leave behind
in the dirt,
under constant hurt.