Modern Romanticism

For terror to incur,
for fire to surrender for,
you are tumbling
with weeds at your knees
where you are kneeling.

The sun is rising
at a horizon
you are unable to see,
walking with iron,
with strength
leaking from veins.

You look back
to see the developing,
enveloping fog
that surrounds scenery
you need to abandon.

There’s nothing there,
besides the great emptiness
you’ve held on for.

Will you ever retrace
where your harboring soul
felt it could endure,
forevermore?

The sun isn’t as gray
as what your mind
sees sickness in.

The moon isn’t covered
all in the darkness,
coming in as contempt
to embed stagnation.

There’s always light
in a direction for your
yearning gravity.

There’s always somewhere
something close can be
raised from depravity.