Modern Romanticism

I’ve been begging
while not getting across
wherever this journey
is leading me.

I’ve been crying
to leave droplets,
hoping for another
to follow.

It’s become a river
to drown a shadow.

It’s made no reflection
during a moonless night.

All light is hidden,
without being framed
as captured lessons.

Imprisonment is this,
inside an echoing shell
with no corners.

What’s feeding me
to continue moving?

What’s needing me
to drag on the miles?

My shoulder I look over
is the shoulder I weep on,
as the burden grows
by what I leave behind
to rust in the ivory
of fallen ashes.