Modern Romanticism

Enforcement calls,
sympathizing with torment
that dulls itself
to a soothed hum,
a whisper in my
formless heart.

I am nowhere near
what I hope to be,
lingering with tragedy
as this life’s
ongoing blight.

There is something
to hold, with much more
with withhold,
drawing remembered,
dismantled faces
in the dust
from an hourglass.

I continue with light
dying for itself,
under the breath
of profanity.

I move onward
with a fractured frame,
capturing a depiction
of this heating friction,
this punishing tension.

I am entombing
all I can recognize,
from in this heart
where memories
are the pieces
that terrorize.