Modern Romanticism

Once idling here,
to correct those echoes
with repeated phrases,
filling in the holes
with unfulfilled promises.

I’ve hoped to defy
what’s come out of
history’s nakedness,
the bare leaves
with their writings,
with their stains.

Surrendering here,
for I’ve always known
what a tragic lie it is
to continue going around
a frozen puddle,
an unmoving reflection.

Decreasing fame,
unneeded trust,
with time’s erosion,
while marks are left
to look back on,
to see what came of
total destruction.

There’s no more
to be treasured,
while steps forward
leave their own echoes,
their sounds
that cannot be escaped.

While the river runs,
streets are merged,
faces are submerged
in a glistening ocean,
baptized in the belief
that something is left
for the purpose
of a torch.