Modern Romanticism

I’ve left blankets
for you to smother
your sun with,
because it isn’t bright,
it isn’t enough to
live your life with.

What is it guiding
when it is suppressing
your chance to keep
your steps moving?

Who is it receiving
upon its dim glow?
You will be what
it wants you to know.

Don’t you want to be
all you’ve cared to be,
destined as a caretaker
to your quieting heart?

You’ve diseased your soul
through endless, needless
toil for a thousand others
that keep you withdrawn
from tending to
your own wounds.

You’ve left yourself out
for a sun that will go out
to dry with a garden,
the one you cannot hide
when it will die.