Modern Romanticism

Why do you continue
this uneven race?
Dissolving foundations,
erasing creation
reprimanding yourself
for what’s left.

It’s captured you
over again, repeatedly
awakening you
to sunlight
that you refuse.

Life is a gift
that others give.
You do more
to repress it in burial,
returning to it,
its place as a void,
to scatter dead petals.

Thickening tears,
widening eyes
are from faint memories
that enter in,
that go out, always when
you are hearing cues
to let you retreat.

Shadows have allowed
your heart to revise,
even while
you stand on the shards,
the vastness of lies.

In your mirror,
there is nothing
other than a blur,
aligned with the blind,
vain notion you have
of what’s meant to last.