Modern Romanticism

Another roundabout
held close, never doubting
what direction I took
to get undressed for you -
the reflection that
never faces me,
completely.

I always see
what does more
to review what I
long to no longer
be what I view.

The future looks like
a growing circle of dust,
an expanding path
where I’m addicted to
reapplied rust.

I am soundless
in the soundscape,
crying with pleas
frozen on a tongue.

I am dreamless
in the dreamscape,
denying all worth
of all choices.

Dig me deeper
into the wound
that I made,
until I’m able
to possess this pain,
to redress myself
without still exposing
this lasting stain.

I want to make a wish,
if that will let me
take a different set
of self-discovering steps,
on pure white sand
on familiar land.