Modern Romanticism

I’ve misinterpreted
this symphony
of silence.

I thought that I
had been healing
on this one path,
this makeshift,
spacious direction.

But I’m losing form,
wasting myself away
back into the first steps
when I was born.

I should not take on
the shape of a silhouette,
being observed by
a thousand achievers.

Their belief in me,
their tears for me
must not be hurled
overboard.

The fire has been
getting refueled,
to bring warmth
to these wounds,
to this pain,
when I can say
I can still fight
if that means
I’ll be better,
one day.

Such exhaustion
drags out the wind
from a pair
of blackened lips.

It cannot be
what drives on
these wings,
when I’m gliding
to find a place
to land, where I can
be what I’ll be
in safer territory.