Modern Romanticism

Birthed as a child,
while rising on wings
not of your own.

You’ve built a fortress
for your tears,
for your defeated years
to be remembered
when captured.

There are no frames
seeking your face,
to reveal your smile
when it has never
been drawn.

To the candleflame,
over to the death
of your vacant name,
life channels you
to revisit a beginning
that gave you up.

Your footfalls are solid,
while your skin
becomes the liquid
left for a puddle
that equals
your reflection.

You run back
to remake the start
of your journey.

You are alone,
begging for eyes
to be watching.