Modern Romanticism

It has been hard
to even walk,
wired with connection
to a fatal history
I’m unable to dismember
from its place,
while I remember
when I retrace.

Footsteps are loud,
as heartbeats are louder
during the loudest
of silent nights.

I want to weep
what I cannot grieve,
if there’s anything
other than a stone
to hold up
to skies all void
of their stars.

I want to cry
for a space
I cannot see,
as blurred vision
remains the mission
to keep pursuing
on its uneven course,
to cover a sickness
with a fever.

I am leading
these tears through
miles that I have
long tread.

There’s no desertion
for this one scar
that welcomes me
back to its war.