Modern Romanticism

Depositing sounds
in the iron of an old wound,
I am nowhere, forever
fearing myself,
taking an endless turn
to hear the moon
of its laughter.

There is no one left,
while I am shouldering
a final, forbidden prayer,
living where eons
have their domain.

Who sees me,
crippled in the flow
of a shower of dust?

The morning is solitary
in what it invites
with its searing glare.

The evening is cementing
a note from burden,
a lifetime of sadness.

I’ll wail for what
won’t ever return,
as it drifted to become
a sparkle, one that I
have not noticed.

Others mention
what presence she holds,
whatever face that she
still puts on.

It’s a world beyond my
entrapping tomb,
as I refrain from curing
this sickness,
this gloom.