Modern Romanticism

This state that stays,
resurging as a memory
to provide a glimpse
into a world that will
never come to know.

It will never come to see
the idea of what solace
can do to relieve.

The words that fill
what’s endless in blankness
will come back to corrupt,
return to remind me
of what doesn’t truly leave.

It’s all in remembrance
of what revives
from a bleak severance,
as I try to decide
what will lead the years
that come in hordes.

There’s an ocean to fill
with the letters to a life
lived to its extent,
lived for what was broken
when it wasn’t bent.

I am dreaming of a story
I might write, when I
am not treasuring the cracks
where exhalations leak
into the expanse.

I’m here to be encased
in a room without an exit
to give me a different route.