Modern Romanticism

Rooted in,
leaving in
the various ways
it’s able to twist
into those shapes,
the ones
we don’t want,
while we’re biting
into the iron
of our wounds.

Standing out,
holding out
the state of our
flooding decay.

We’ve kept going
to be more
than anything less,
drifting nowhere
on an ocean we made
with our years.

Growing old
with everything left
to be cold for,
losing wisdom
from the lessons
we will abhor
for our remaining,
unused time,
exposing limits
in the dust.